


.all.too.briefly.

by zeraparker



Series: .all.too.briefly. universe [1]
Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Demisexuality, Depression, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mentors, Past Relationship(s), Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 08:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17998499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/pseuds/zeraparker
Summary: It’s no one's fault that Andre is drunk and melancholy and so fucking lonely as he slouches aimlessly around his house in Gordes. - A tale about how home is where the heart is and the people you love, how love can come in many unexpected ways, and the deep connection of people who've known each other for a long time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was not supposed to be this long! I blame it *entirely* on Andre's Off the Grid video, and the incredible body language between Andre and Helmut. It took over my brain. I've been working on this since Christmas, and it's finally done.
> 
> Warning: It's the slowest of slow burns.
> 
> This would not have been possible without the ever constant encouragement, feedback, squeeing and input I got from lost_decade. Thank you so so much for the support. I really appreciate you being there every step along the way.
> 
> I made a playlist to go along with this! If you enjoy moody folk songs, you can find [all too briefly on Spotify here](https://open.spotify.com/user/rs4lyi4tf360mznzivz6b05kx/playlist/3Lg4K3GwzVrEVvoWUO10Jc?si=2A7ggbmrT2-pvAUtkPHDKQ).

Andre calls James. It goes to voicemail after a couple rings. He looks at the phone, tries to do the math, but his mind is too sluggish from alcohol to figure out the time zones he’s gotten so used to, the time it is in Tokyo popping up unbidden at the forefront of his mind even though he knows James isn’t there. James is in Orlando with his brother and his family and his fucking sunrises. It’s not fair he should be mad about that. They aren’t a thing. He’s got no right to monopolize James’ time and his presence. It’s what he likes about James, it’s what’s drawn them to each other at the other end of the world: they’d always known what they were at. Time spent together was time spent together, a kiss was a kiss, and a fuck was a fuck. Never any promises or secrets that threatened to get their wires crossed. It’s not James’ fault that Andre is drunk and melancholy and so fucking lonely as he slouches aimlessly around his house in Gordes.

It’s supposed to be home, now. He’s left Japan for this, for these endless halls that look good on photographs when the light filters in just right, the Mediterranean never cold even in winter, even though the breeze that is floating in through one of the many windows he left open somewhere in the house he doesn’t know where gives him goose bumps.

He walks past the huge Christmas tree the decorator had set up, calling him the week before when he’d still been in Seefeld, skiing with Helmut: Helmut’s eyebrow raised in amusement when he’d listened to one side of the conversation, Andre’s ears turning red under the scrutiny or maybe just from the icy cold on top of the mountain, sitting in front of a chalet during their lunch break. It’s huge, too huge for him to have set up himself, decorated in the same sleek chic the rest of the house is, minimalist and so damn pretty, a bunch of empty cardboard boxes wrapped up like gifts he plans on giving, like he’s actually awaiting guests for the next days. The first day he’d tried to keep Max from tearing into them, but what for? And Max had lost interest quick enough when he realised there was nothing to be found inside. Andre wonders when Max will lose interest in him too. He takes another sip from his whiskey, swirling the amber liquid around the glass, watching the lights of the Christmas tree reflected in it.

His fingers find his phone again, thumbing through the Instagram posts of his friends and rivals, the pictures his mum sends him from the Caribbean cruise Andre sent her and her new partner on for Christmas, to spend the days together in the warmth, a luxury she would never allow herself. It’s the only thing that really makes him happy, all the riches he accumulated over the years of racing at the pointy end of the many grids he’d been part of: the ability to spoil her rotten.

Andre looks at the phone again, at the private insta message Jev had sent him still open, still unanswered, asking about all the presents. He’d told his family he was expecting friends. He’d told his friends he was expecting family. No one had asked further, knowing his tendency to stay off social media when he was immersed in his private life. Only Jev he hadn’t answered yet, somehow unable to lie to him, not even via texts, not when he’s pretty sure he was the only one to receive the picture of Jev’s head half shaved, too mortified to go on and finish what Lea started. He’s got that image saved on his phone, as well as the ones that had followed, not just the one he eventually posted on his insta feed. He wants to know what it feels like beneath his palm, whether Jev already got used to his own face in the mirror, whether he plans to grow it out again. He wants to know if it’s just as soft as the strands were between his fingers when he’d stolen a secret touch, has to realign the fantasies of Jev on his knees and his fingers tangled in his hair to the new look Jev has now. Wonders if Jev would mind.

But he’s had his chance and he’s ruined it. He doesn’t tell Jev that he’s got bottles of the cheap Tequila they’d drunk in Santiago after their clash and their surprising one-two, both in the same race, the adrenaline still pumping through them afterwards making them reckless in their celebrations. _I’d have killed you,_ Jev had said, in a surprisingly sober moment in between rows of shots as they’d stood at a small table attached to one of the pillars in the dark club the FE teams had ended up partying in. _If we’d both crashed out, I’d have killed you right there next to the barriers for ruining this._ The hand he’d placed on Andre’s shoulder some time earlier in their conversation had moved to his throat, squeezing lightly, not really a threat, just a show of intent without the will to go through with it. Jev had cocked his head to the side, contemplating, his eyes slightly hazy from the amount of alcohol they had drunk. Andre had felt his palm against his throat as he swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and then they’d been kissing, not really affectionate, just another spill-over from their clash on track earlier.

The next morning Andre had sworn to himself not to risk this, to tone down the banter they had going, despite how the team and the fans were playing into it. He had no illusions that he hadn’t played part in Jev and Kriss ending it not much later, in the confused and then disappointed look on Jev’s face when he’d come to Andre with his ego bruised more than his heart broken, and all Andre had offered was the friendly shoulder a teammate should offer, not at all what he’d wanted but sure it was the right decision. He had congratulated Jev later that year when Lorene and the little family she brought along had fixed herself as a permanent face at Jev’s side, at the happiness that had returned to the smile that stood him so well, the image of the perfect champion their sport deserved.

No, it’s not fair to call Jev, to get him all tangled up in whatever mess Andre’s life and his mind has become. So he doesn’t answer Jev’s text, records a voicemail instead in reply to just another clip of Cheetah showing up in his feed a couple minutes later, slurs something half affectionate and half crude about Jev getting himself pussy for Christmas, wonders if it will even be decipherable to the other.

Andre takes another sip from his whiskey, but it’s empty. He looks at it, holds it up to catch the sparkling lights in the glass and residue at the bottom. His bare feet echo on the floor in the big hall as he walks to the bar, looks through the glass at the bottles he’d sorted in there, flanked by the empty, signed champagne bottles from two of his Lemans victories. There’s another signed bottle, whiskey, the _good_ kind, the _expensive_ kind he wouldn’t buy for himself, still with a little bow attached to it. Tom’s messy scrawl covers most of the label, barely legible. It’s the kind of whiskey that should be celebrated, should be shared on a special occasion. _Fuck you, Tom,_ Andre thinks as he takes it from the cabinet, removes the little bow, opens the metal cover holding the cork in place with his teeth and spits it onto the counter top. He leaves his empty glass there too, takes a sip straight from the bottle as he wanders back through the hall. _Fuck you, Tom, and your pretentious bullshit._ The house is too fucking big for him.

He’s a masochist, he knows, not just since Helmut told him so in amusement during one of their many long training sessions in which Andre pushed just that little bit further, made Helmut push him just that much harder. Andre sits down in the big squashy sofa among the millions of cushions he bought – the interior designer bought, making the house cosy in a magazine kind of way. Max takes an interest, coming over from his dog bed at the other end of the hall, his claws pitter-pattering over the concrete before he jumps onto the cushions. Andre already knows his fur will be a bitch to get off the many light fabrics around the house, but he doesn’t care, grateful for the simple affection as Max shuffles against his side, lying down with his head on Andre’s lap, his tail wagging against the cushions. Andre reaches out for him, scratching him between the ears, feeling the dog nuzzle closer before starting to doze off like the lazy monster he is, the hours-long walk they did earlier in the day having worn him out but not calmed Andre’s mind like he’d hoped it would.

He takes another sip from the bottle, then lodges it in between his thigh and one of the cushions, careful not to spill any on the couch as he reaches for his phone again. Yes, so he is a masochist, he thinks, his thoughts returning to the man that had gifted him the whiskey that is so warmly cursing through his bloodstream now. His idol. The legend. Andre had thought that would have been enough, having the legend when Tom had told him that was all he could get, all Tom was willing to offer. He’d been young then, and naïve, and he’d really believed that would be enough, or that he’d somehow change Tom’s mind, that he could lure him away from the path Tom had set for himself both in his professional and his personal life. Andre hadn’t understood then with what clinical precision Tom was separating them, how Andre would never have a chance to pass that border Tom so securely set up between both parts of his mind, of his heart. It’s no use knowing that Tom had never lied to him, never really led him on, not when he hadn’t needed to. Andre had allowed himself to be easily manipulated, his mind providing all that Tom didn’t put into words. He opens Tom’s Instagram, looks through his pictures, his stories, all pretentiously black and white, all high and mighty and arty, showing him at the FIA conference, at this or that gala, the arsehole. The pictures of his family, of his fucking trophies arranged like a Christmas tree. Andre wants to tear them down, throw a bowling ball among all that shiny silverware maybe. He wants to be the one dressed in a nice suit sitting at Tom’s side at the galas and award shows, the one with Tom’s arm over his shoulders being held close in family photos. He wants to throw up.

He doesn’t try to call Tom, doesn’t send him a text or a voicemail. He’s a masochist, but he isn’t that much into humiliation. He takes another long gulp of the whiskey, it slides down his throat like oil it’s so smooth. The room is spinning gently around him, Max’s warm weight against his side a grounding presence.

He falls asleep, maybe, or he just plain passes out for some time. He isn’t quite sure, doesn’t know what startles him awake some undefined amount of time later. His head is pounding gently, and Max is gone, a shiver raking up his body, feeling cold as he turns over, lost in the squashy cushions.

His phone rings, finally alerting Andre to what had woken him. He fumbles around himself, listens to the ringing stop before he finds it, then the ringing starts again. Helmut’s face, the black and white portrait Andre took of him a while back, that earnest look on his face that Andre knows so well like it’s reserved just for him. He stares at the picture so long that the call disconnects, cursing himself. His display shows that it hadn’t been the first time Helmut tried to call him in the past half an hour. He hits the connect button clumsily.

“Did I catch you wanking, or what?” Helmut says in lieu of a greeting, his voice rasping through the line.

“Fuck you,” Andre murmurs back, closing his eyes as he listens to Helmut breathing. The room is spinning, in the unpleasant way towards the beginning of a hangover. He considers drinking straight through it, but already knows Helmut would disapprove of it, even though Helmut has nothing against the occasional drink himself. He’s certain that the two days binge Andre went on all by himself is enough to get more than a stern reprimand though. “What do you want?” he asks, the words clumsy and slurred on his tongue, not as scathing as the word choice could make them out.

“It’s polite to call people you care about during the holidays to wish them a merry Christmas, you Neanderthal,” Helmut says. “Where are your manners?”

Andre closes his eyes, rubs his hand over his face. He isn’t sober enough for human contact. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Merry Christmas and all that.”

“Good boy,” Helmut says, his voice thoughtful. “You drunk?”

“Mmh,” Andre answers. He really does feel sick now.

“You alone?”

Andre can hear the disapproval in Helmut’s voice, so he doesn’t deem it necessary to answer that question, just tries to keep his breathing under control as not to upset his roiling stomach.

“Andre,“ Helmut starts with a long suffering sigh, letting the word hang in the air. “Is this like Japan?” he asks after a minute of silence, of Andre looking at his phone screen to check Helmut hasn’t hung up on him – he wouldn’t, Andre is sure of that, but just vulnerable enough to check anyway.

“No,” Andre says defiantly. He struggles with the cushions, trying to sit up a little straighter. The whiskey bottle, still somewhere next to him, tips over, spilling pungent liquid against his thigh, onto the cushions. Andre curses, slopping more onto his fingers as he rights the bottle, trying to clumsily diminish the damage. “No,” he repeats after he’s pushed himself to the edge of the sofa, sitting up and putting the open bottle down on the floor. The polished concrete feels cold under his feet, the room slanting precariously at the shift. Yes, maybe it is, he admits to himself, but he isn’t going to say that out loud. He isn’t 20 anymore. He isn’t a green-eared rookie anymore. He’s a world champion, for fuck’s sake, he can take care of himself. Being uprooted again and again is basically part of his job description.

“Do you need me to come over?” Helmut asks after another long pause.

“No.” Andre is proud of how firm his voice sounds then. He doesn’t want Helmut here, among the boxes with his life from Tokyo still unpacked, with the decorations the interior designer picked out that Andre has no fucking clue how expensive they were, that mean jack shit to him. With Helmut’s disapproval and help and kindness. With Andre’s empty gift boxes and empty liqueur bottles and empty rooms. “No.”

Helmut is silent for another long moment. “Do you want to come here then? I wanted to ask you anyway, whether you’d want to come over. We’ve got fresh snow and the slopes are fantastic. You’d enjoy it.”

It’s the easy way out, talking about training, their one common, safe ground. There’re no crossed wires there, just professionalism, the work that shapes Andre’s body, his capital for racing as successfully as he does, the work that Helmut does shaped just as much by Andre over the years.

“When?” Andre asks.

“Do not drive drunk,” Helmut tells him, his voice leaving no room for argument before he hangs up.


	2. Chapter 2

_Half an hour_. Andre had texted Helmut about 90 minutes ago as he finally pulls up his car into the cleared driveway in front of Helmut’s house, only a light sprinkling of snow compressed by the tyres of his car. He shuts down the engine, looking up at the two-storey house with its light façade and the dark wooden roof in the typical local style, the thick layer of snow on the tiled roof that looks like it’s come straight out of a postcard book. The engine ticks as it cools down, the sudden silence in the car making his ears ring. Max gives an excited yip from the passenger seat where Andre had sat him down after they’d returned to the car, the tips of his own ears burning in quiet humiliation.

He hadn’t thought, is the problem, like he doesn’t think so often these days. Of course, it’s high season in the Alps, especially with the snow so thick and perfect for skiing, the standing reservation he’s got at the resort not extending to those busy weeks if he doesn’t confirm them in advance. It hadn’t been a nice surprise to see the confusion on the receptionist’s face when he’d asked for the room key, telling him the room wasn’t available, that in fact the whole resort was fully booked, down to the last room. And his only concern on the drive that had taken him all day had been whether they’d charge him extra for bringing his dog. It makes him feel even more of a fool, scratches at the composure he’d tried to maintain, to rebuild during the day. There’s still a throbbing at the back of his skull that the litres of water and electrolytes he’s drunk to sober up had only lessened, his stomach queasy, reminding him of his age and his body’s less forgiving nature these days. Fuck, he’s tired.

“Come on, then,” Andre says to Max and gets out of the car, the dog following him across the centre console and out his door impatiently before Andre has the chance to round the car and open the passenger door, shaking his fur noisily and yapping again, already skittering away the familiar path up to the front door of the house. Andre sighs, retrieving his bags from the boot of the car, making sure it is locked before he follows Max to the door that is already open, casting a warm light across the steps leading up to it. In the doorway, Andre can see Helmut straighten from where he’s leaned down to greet the dog, Max pittering away into the depths of the house to sniff out the new surroundings.

“Half an hour Andre-time?” Helmut asks with an arched eyebrow, but an amused smirk is curling around the corners of his mouth, his eyes gentle. Andre shrugs and allows himself to be drawn into the embrace. “Come on, I’ll reheat dinner,” Helmut says and turns away, looking over his shoulder.

Andre drops his bags inside the door, closing out the cold behind him, shivering slightly. He toes off his trainers, his socked feet curling on the hardwood floors as he follows Helmut into the kitchen. It’s as cosy as he remembers it, and something in his chest unclenches at the warmth of the tiled hearth that takes up one corner of the room, forms a divider to the living room that goes off to one side of the kitchen. He goes towards it, laying his hands against the ceramic exterior to soak up the heat made by the fire inside, breathes in the scent of burning wood and the herbs Helmut used to spice their dinner.

The vegetables in the sauce are a little soggy from being reheated, but Helmut hadn’t put the pasta into the water yet, so the perfectly al-dente pasta makes up for it. Andre’s stomach is still complaining though and he pushes most of the food around his plate, only picking at it, his mind still replaying the awkward conversation at the hotel earlier. Helmut reads his mood, not trying to fill the silence with chitchat; they’ve known each other for too long to need to fill any stretch of silence. Before long, Andre can feel his eyelids droop. He’s slouched onto the wooden bench, watching Helmut clear away the plates into the dishwasher, Max close at his heels.

“Did you walk him earlier?” Helmut asks, washing his hands at the sink.

“We did a longer walk half way here,” Andre reports. “Just a short round now, I guess.”

“Go shower, I’ll take care of him,” Helmut says, leaning down to scratch Max’s ears affectionately.

Too tired to fight and glad for the opportunity to get away, Andre gets up from the bench.

 

Half an hour and a very long, very hot shower later, Andre is standing in the guest bedroom, an incredulous look on his face. He can hear the front door on the ground floor of the house close, Helmut and Max returning, and waits until he’s heard the footsteps come up the stairs.

“ _Cars_?” he asks bemused as soon as Helmut is within earshot, looking over his shoulder when the floorboards in the hallway creak, Max whining as he’s still on the leash Helmut clipped into his collar.

Helmut comes around the corner, following Andre’s gaze that’s still fixed on the colourful children’s bedclothes covering the guest bed. He smirks. “You think I don’t know your beast isn’t going to jump into bed with you as soon as you’ve closed your eyes?” Helmut asks. “I’m not letting him ruin my good guest sheets. Besides, I thought you’d appreciate the design.”

Andre has returned to staring at the dozens of identical, happy-faced cartoon cars that are gazing up at him. It’s vile. He says so.

Helmut snorts. “Don’t be prissy, they were on sale. They’re also really soft, you’ll like them.”  He leans down to unclip the leash on Max’s collar, and as expected the dog starts into the room and jumps up onto the blanket. Helmut raises one eyebrow, then draws Andre into half a hug. “Have a good night.”

“Traitor,” Andre tells Max after he’s closed the door behind himself. Max just looks up at him happily, his tail wagging against the soft sheets. Andre pushes at him to make room for himself, slipping beneath the blanket. With the lights off and his eyes closed, at least he doesn’t have to look at the design. And the sheets are ridiculously soft, so much so that he can’t help sighing as he rubs his cheek against the pillowcase. He doesn’t understand why it irks him so much though.

Despite the tiredness he feels making his limbs heavy, he can’t stop tossing and turning, so much so that after a couple minutes Max jumps off the bed with a huff, curling up on the dog bed Andre had brought along and unrolled next to the bed. Max stares at Andre through the near darkness before closing his eyes, head resting comfortably on his paws. It’s not like Andre hasn’t slept in this room before. It’s not their usual configuration, that’s true: whenever Andre is here for training, he stays at the resort. It’s just more convenient that way, but they usually take at least one evening to eat away from the crowd in the resort’s fantastic restaurant, usually Andre the one taking over Helmut’s kitchen in a bid to give back, to show his appreciation. On those evenings Andre usually ends up in the guest bedroom, the evening too late and his body too comfortable with good food and the occasional glass of wine to feel like walking across town back to the hotel.

So he shouldn’t feel as out of place as he does right now. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t know what this is, what the parameters of his visit are this time; he doesn’t even know how long he’ll stay, the things he packed enough to last him a couple days or take him all the way into the new year if he so wishes. That he doesn’t have any fixed plans for New Year’s Eve yet, just James’ vague promise to do something not really pacifying his mind. God, is he old enough that partying lost all its appeal, apart from the promise of booze and the few hours of oblivion going along with it?

The thoughts keep him up all night, so that by the time the sky turns a murky grey outside that promises more snow and no sun, Andre feels like he’s barely closed his eyes, much less got any rest. Andre gets up, going barefoot out onto the balcony for a moment to breathe in a couple lungs of freezing air to clear his head. The town is already up and busy around them, the first ski lifts he can see in the distance having started to move as soon as it got light, but Andre can tell that the conditions on the slopes are going to be tricky today, wind tousling his hair and bringing a flurry of fine snowflakes with it. He ducks back into his room, his cheeks cold and toes numb from the icy temperatures outside.

The door is ajar, and Max is nowhere to be seen. The scent of fresh coffee is wafting up the stairs though, and Andre follows it down into the kitchen. Helmut is at the kitchen counter, sipping a cup of coffee, his hands going to the button on the big steel coffee machine at the end of the counter, the satisfying noise of the grinder switching on, Andre’s mouth already watering in anticipation. He goes over to the hearth, sitting down on the bench-like protrusion, pulling his cold feet up onto the seat with him to warm his toes. He gratefully accepts the coffee when Helmut hands him the cup.

“What’s the plan for today?” Andre asks, blowing over the steaming cup before he takes a cautious sip.

“Dog walk first, and then see how the weather keeps up?” Helmut suggests, leaning back against the counter.

Andre nods, knowing the rest of the day will be far easier if they tire Max enough that he won’t mind staying behind curled up in his dog bed for most of the day. “I better get dressed then,” Andre agrees and gets back to his feet, taking the cup with him as he returns to the bedroom to wrap himself in enough layers to keep the cold at bay. By the time he returns to the kitchen, Helmut has a small backpack ready, just adding a big thermos of what Andre knows will be more coffee to it before he zips it up, handing Andre a plate with some toast before he gets into his shoes.

The flurry of snow outside is much denser when they finally brave it. Max doesn’t seem to mind, happily chasing after the flakes as far as his leash allows, jumping into the next big heap of snow as soon as they’ve cleared the village and ventured out onto one of the hiking paths leading in a big circle up along one of the mountain sides and then back down towards the other end of the village. There isn’t much of the usual view, the mountains shrouded in grey clouds, Andre’s face tucked in securely between the thick scarf and the brim of his beanie. He has unclipped the leash from Max’s collar, watching him run back and forth over the icy path, his feet skittering in the couple centimetres of fresh snow, leaving little clouds behind.

There’s a little wooden shelter up ahead, where the path forks off to the right to come back in a circle towards the village, the other fork snaking up the side of the mountain to meet the end of the lift much higher up, a nice hike in the summer, a brutal march in these conditions. The shelter’s roof and the bows of the pines on either side are heavily laden with snow, but the fence that runs around the shelter has kept it away from the picknick bench and table inside. They sit down for a bit, passing the plastic cup of the thermos between them, their fingers red and numb from the cold where they touch. Max is munching at some snow, nosing along the inside of the fence, picking up scents in the almost washed away traces of birds and small forest dwellers.

By the time they return to the house, Andre’s shoes are heavy with snow caked on them, the back of his neck wet where the slush has dripped inside the collar of his jacket. He waits with Max in front of the door until Helmut has brought him some towels, rubbing the dog dry before he can ruin the upholstery of Helmut’s couch, then releases him inside before he frees himself off the soggy coat and boots.

“So, are we going to the ski slopes now?” Andre asks over a quick bowl of reheated left-overs from the night before.

“Let’s go to Scharnitz instead,” Helmut decides with a glance to the snow still falling outside and the clock clicking closer to midday. “Did you even bring your skiing gear?”

“It’s in storage at the resort, you know that,” Andre says, pouting over the next spoonful of food. He loves the shooting range, but it’s not the kind of release he’s craving. He wants to go outside and lose himself in the twilight of snow in his face and the crunch of ski on the slopes.

“We can go pick up your skis on the way back, going there now is just going to cost us too much time anyway,” Helmut says way too reasonably for Andre’s taste, but he knows sulking won’t help once the other has made up his mind.

 

 

 

They’ve got the shooting range to themselves. It’s the only comfort Andre has as he goes through the motions of putting on his protective gear, retrieving his rifle from the locker and assembling the bits and pieces. Usually just the scent of gun powder in the meticulously climatized rooms and soundproofing in the building that locks out all outside noise and puts them into their own little bubble has a calming effect on his nerves, but he’d set his mind on other kinds of distractions when he’d agreed to come visit, the adrenaline rush of the ski slopes, the way instincts have to take over to protect him from dangerous spills into the snow wiping out any other thought process. He can feel Helmut’s eyes on him as they take up their usual positions on the range, clenches his hands into fists to keep them from shaking as he logs into the computer, pulling up their target sheets.

He loads the rifle, letting the familiar weight of it settle in his palms, the cold steel quickly warming against his skin, the almost slick wood of the handle. He takes a couple deep breaths to centre himself before he lifts the rifle against his chin, looking through the scope as he prepares for the first shot.

It’s a seven. An average shot, and it irks him that he thinks it’s better than he expected. The hairs at the back of his neck stand up as he tenses, his mind already trying to come up with a comeback to a quip he expects from Helmut, but all he hears is the plop of his gun as he pulls the trigger, the sounds of him reloading his rifle. They continue like that, switching from their trial shots to their usual competitive schedule, the count for the Olympic shooting targets appearing at the corner of Andre’s screen.

It all goes downhill from there. Andre can tell that Helmut is watching him, distracted from his own score, though his shots stay at a firm average in the high eight point somethings, while Andre’s own focus is frizzling out, running like quicksand through his fingers.

When his average drops below a five point five, Andre lets out a frustrated growl. He unloads the rifle, puts it down on the waist high divider in front of him and stalks out of the room with a huff, back to the lockers, grateful to find them still deserted. He drops onto the bench in the middle of the room, buries his face in his hands and tries to just breathe for a moment.

“You going to tell me what’s wrong with you?” Helmut’s careful words pull him from where his thoughts are speeding towards.

Andre looks up through his fingers at where Helmut is leaning in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, his face set in a calm, neutral expression. The sudden urge to get up, to crowd him against the wall or possibly try and punch him just to see whether he could, whether Helmut would anticipate the movement and defend himself, even better if he’d try and hit back, almost overwhelms Andre. Instead, he twists his fingertips into his hair, letting the air whistle out through clenched teeth.

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully. No, if he’d known what the cause is for all the headaches and spiralling thoughts and urge to hide himself at the bottom of a bottle or possibly the other end of the world, he’d be able to live with it, hell, to get on his feet again. But his brain draws a blank every time. Maybe it’s the season. Maybe it’s that he’s thought he’d come back to Europe and everything would just fall into place, this feeling of isolation and disconnect that had only intensified over the last years in Japan, that negating the physical distance alone would be enough not to make him feel lonely anymore. But the plan hasn’t worked out, not in the way he’d hoped; the ones he wants to be close to are off with their loved ones and families and friends, their flings and possibilities of happily ever afters.

He looks up at Helmut, remembers the kiddie sheets and contempt he’d felt for them, the way he’s seated on the low bench and having to crane his neck to meet Helmut’s eyes not really helping with how small he feels, how childish in his flaring temper.

Helmut takes a cautious step closer, then another when Andre doesn’t do more than watch him through weary eyes. He unfolds his arms, reaching out to card his fingers through Andre’s hair gently. Andre closes his eyes at the soft touch, something he isn’t used to from his mentor. He can feel Helmut nudge the inside of his feet with his shoes as he shuffles closer, and Andre drops his hands, the plastic-y fabric of the protection gear they’re both wearing cool against his forehead when Helmut draws his head against his stomach, petting his hair and neck.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to talk,” he says, and Andre nods. “But let me know when something comes to mind, so I know how to help you.” The grimace Andre makes is hidden from Helmut’s view. They stay like that for a couple of minutes, until Andre can feel his shoulders relax by a fraction.

 

 

 

“Where are you going?” Andre asks later when he watches Helmut with his laptop stuck under one arm, having just picked up a cup of fresh coffee from the machine.

Helmut looks at him with one eyebrow quirked. “You know I do actually have to work while you’re here, right? This is not official vacation time for me.” He laughs when Andre can’t help pulling a face. “You can entertain yourself for a couple of hours, right?” His face softens. “Maybe go to bed early, you still look exhausted.”

_I look old,_ Andre wants to say, but he can’t deny Helmut is right. It’s early evening, and he is a grown adult, he can keep himself busy. Thinking that Helmut could put all responsibilities aside just because Andre is having a small mid-life crisis only makes Andre aware of how self-centred his thought process has been recently.

Max lifts his head as Helmut walks past to head up the stairs to his office, following him with his eyes before he turns his head to look at Andre expectantly, tail wagging.

“Yes, okay, I’ll get dressed, we’ll go outside again,” he tells Max and pushes himself up from the couch, grateful for the distraction.

When he returns a couple hours later, the door to Helmut’s office is still closed, soft music just so audible through the wood. Andre pauses for a moment, listening before he goes back down the stairs. He feeds Max, but doesn’t really feel hungry himself despite the time for dinner having passed. Settling on the couch, he thumbs through his smart phone aimlessly for a couple of minutes, but it can’t hold his attention, his mind frayed. His body is still in high alert though, the walks he did today not enough to calm the adrenaline he’d hoped to get out of his system by spending more time on the ski slopes making him twitchy.

Andre gets up from the couch, watching as Max’s ears barely twitch from where the dog has lain down on the rug in front of the warm hearth, lazy now after his walk and dinner. Andre heads for the stairs, but instead of going up to the first floor he takes the other direction down into the basement that Helmut converted into half gym, half tinker workshop. They had done maintenance on the bikes the last time Andre had been here, removed the back wheel from Helmut’s to prop it into the stand to use it indoors during the snow season, Andre’s own placed to hang on the wall. There’s a second stand, less elaborate in recording workout sessions, but much easier to mount a bike on without having to remove the wheel first.

Mounting the bike is easy enough, the motions something he barely has to think about. The sweatpants he changed into are good for lounging, for yoga, but not ideal for cycling. He doesn’t feel like going upstairs again though. He toes off his socks for more grip on the peddles and gets onto the bike, his body seemingly relaxing the moment it settles into the familiar posture. He slowly starts spinning the wheel, getting his muscles warmed up before he leans forwards over the handle bars. He hasn’t switched on any music or the TV mounted on one wall, hasn’t even set up the bike to face it. He closes his eyes and loses himself in the movement of his legs.

The world narrows down to the muscles working in his legs, to the pressure points where his arms are resting against the plastic clad steel of the handle bar. There isn’t any real resistance from the bike, just the choice of gear he selects but without any actual tarmac to work against it doesn’t translate the same as the road would. The sound of the wheel whirring inside the stand and his own breathing that gets heavier as he starts pushing himself are the only sounds in his ears. Sweat is slowly gathering at his hairline, running down his temple, seeping through the cotton fabric of his T shirt and sweatpants.

The sudden hand at his elbow startles him. Andre flails, enough so to almost lose his balance on the wobbly stand of the bike, if not for the touch turning into a steadying grip. He pushes himself up to his hands, the wheel singing loudly as he stops peddling, the world rushing back in around him. The low ceiling of the basement suddenly feels claustrophobically close above his head.

Helmut is standing at his elbow, frowning at him. “You’ve been at it for hours,” he says, and Andre isn’t sure whether it’s an observation or a question or a reprimand. He shrugs, twisting to look around the room, finding the clock on the wall. It’s the middle of the night. He doesn’t want to admit to losing track of time so badly. There’s a satisfying soreness when he moves his legs consciously for the first time in a while, though his back is stiff from the hunched over posture on the bike.

“I’m okay,” he says, not really knowing what Helmut is expecting. Helmut just raises an eyebrow at him and reaches out, digs his index finger into the tight bunch of muscles at the small of his back, and Andre twists away in pain.

Helmut sighs, but reaches out unasked to steady Andre as he clambers off the bike. “Have a shower, and if you’re quick enough I’ll work enough of that tension out of you that you’ll actually be able to get on the skis tomorrow.” Andre’s eyes flick to the massage table that’s folded up in a corner of the room. “Upstairs,” Helmut clarifies, seeing where his gaze went. “I’m not carrying you up two flights once you’re ready to fall asleep. Go.” He gives Andre’s shoulder a gentle nudge in the direction of the stairs.

Andre drags himself up to the second floor, his legs decidedly heavier now he’s stopped moving. He goes into the en-suite off the guestroom, switching the shower on as hot as he can tolerate. He waits for a moment until it has warmed, filling the room with dense steam before he steps out of his sweat-drenched clothes. The inseam of the sweatpants, as soft as the material is, has chafed the inside of his thighs, leaving the skin a tender red as he washes himself. Two bruises have built on the underside of his lower arms where he’d rested his weight against the handlebar, throbbing gently. Andre inspects them through the water cascading over his skin, making a mental note to add more padding to the handlebar.

When he returns to the guestroom, the air is crisp and chilled, like the window had just been opened. Goosebumps break out over his bare skin, the towel around his waist not really helping against the chill, though he knows the heater coils build into the floor will take care of it in only a couple minutes. There’s a yoga mat rolled out in the space between the bed and the window, a couple towels layered on top to make it comfortable. Andre is eyeing the bed longingly but knows Helmut wouldn’t approve.

“Don’t even look at the bed,” Helmut says as he appears in the doorway behind Andre, as if having read his mind. Andre gives him a small smile, snatching up one of the throw pillows as he walks over to the mat on the floor, stuffing it beneath the towels to rest his head on. He sits down, then stretches out along the length of the mat on his back, adjusting the towel that’s still around his waist. He closes his eyes, listening to Helmut walk around the room and the floorboards creak as he kneels by Andre’s feet, the familiar snick of a plastic bottle, the scent of oranges and spices suddenly in the air. Andre inhales deeply, consciously trying to make his body relax as he feels Helmut’s hands on him, lifting one of his feet and stroking his fingers slick with massage oil from the arch of his foot over his ankle to the sore muscles of his calves.

They must have done this a million times. There is its own rhythm to the way Helmut touches him, almost ritualistic. Andre anticipates every stroke of his hands, every tightening of fingers that dig into his muscles. He matches his breathing to the sweep of Helmut’s sure hands, warmed by the friction of skin against skin despite the oil aiding their glide over his body. It’s hypnotic. Andre lets his thoughts spiral away to the many paddocks and hotels around the world where he’d lain like this, before and after races, no matter their expectation or outcome.

He opens his eyes, lazily gazing at Helmut in the dim light of the room, watches him openly. There’s nothing closed off in the set of his shoulders, in the ever-present little frown between his eyebrows as he expertly manipulates Andre’s muscles, finding the knots even deep between the layers of muscle strands, his eyes downcast, watching himself work. Andre’s skin tingles where he’s being touched, knows that by the end of Helmut’s thorough ministrations most of his body will be in that state between heavy satiation and the sweet ache of something left unfulfilled simmering just beneath the surface.

He can’t stop his mind from going to James, to the many times James’ hands touched him like this, his own hands touched James. Their years at the mercy of various physios have made them able masseurs themselves, practising whenever a professional wasn’t available; sometimes to relieve muscle pain, more often a prelude to sex. Andre doesn’t want his thoughts to stray there, not when he knows that James is on his way back from Florida, possibly already in the arms of the gorgeous blonde he’d already sent Andre a dozen pretty pictures of, another dozen pictures Andre is sure where meant for James’ eyes only, but there’s barely anything James doesn’t share with him. The soft tap of fingers against the outside of his knee thankfully draw him away from that line of thoughts and he rolls over obediently, settling on his stomach, grateful for the chance to hide his flushed cheeks against the curl of his arm around the pillow, to hide his half hard cock against the mat and towels.

Helmut’s hands steadily work up the back of his thighs, skimming under the edge of the towel, the fabric itself more to adhere some universal state of modesty than to shield Andre from him. They’ve known each other too long for there to be any secrets left between them, he thinks, and as so often can’t decide whether that should make him feel more secure around his trainer, his mentor and friend, or more vulnerable, laid bare in more than just the physical sense. It’s a train of thought that’s haunted him for a while now, that pops up time and again when he least expects it. So far, he hasn’t come to a satisfactory answer.

Helmut’s weight shifts behind him as he moves up Andre’s body following the line of his long legs to more comfortably reach his lower back, the towel he pushed up earlier to reach the top of his thighs now pushed down to allow him to dig his fingers into the small of his back, where the muscles along his spine dimple and connect with the swell of his arse. If Andre was lying on a massage table, Helmut would be standing at his side, but the angle is awkward with him kneeling on the floor, so he shifts to straddle Andre’s thighs, his weight settling easily on the by now warm and lose muscles there. It bears Andre down, grounds him, and he covers the small groan that wants to work itself lose from the back of his throat with a hiss as Helmut’s knowing fingers find a knot of bunched up muscles and dig in. His cock throbs where it’s caught against the fabric of the towel. He allows his mind to drift off again, now that he doesn’t have to face Helmut, can’t help but imagine the hands of a lover on his back.

“Give me your hands.” Helmut’s voice startles him, soft as it’s spoken, weaving in between the strands of his scattered mind. He’s worked his way up Andre’s back, fingers moving over the balls of his shoulders, then down along Andre’s arms when Andre lifts his head from where it’s resting on them, letting Helmut guide them down to lie parallel to his back, running his palms up and down the muscles to smooth them out. The snick of the oil bottle is almost jarring in the quiet of the room that presses down on Andre’s eardrums now that he’s aware of it, another wave of that orange and spice scent washing over him as he forces himself to take a deep, calming breath, his back lifting into Helmut’s hands through it. Helmut doesn’t say more, going back to the same hypnotic motions over the expanse of Andre’s back, but Andre can’t shake off the tension, can’t relax back into that half-dream state he’d succumbed to before.

Andre is hyperaware of his body, of every inch that’s pressed into the soft cotton of the towels beneath him, the firm floor beneath, the warmth of Helmut’s hands where he’s rubbing them over his skin, leaving it prickling into goose bumps in their wake. He can feel himself flush, the heat spreading through his whole body, and wonders if Helmut can feel it beneath his palms, the tell-tale signs of the arousal he can’t fight. It’s a physical reaction, he knows, not the first time he’s gone hard from a massage, but he feels spread thin, the intimacy of the situation - being in Helmut’s house, spread out on the floor, Helmut’s weight anchoring him in his body, no distraction from a bustling paddock around them - makes him shiver and the muscles along his lower back and arse clench instinctively.

“Relax, it’s okay,” Helmut says, his words soft, like he’s gentling a twitchy animal. His hands never falter in their movements across Andre’s back, even as Andre feels himself bristle.

“Sorry,” he mumbles turning his face into the pillow even though that makes it hard to breathe, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“It’s okay,” Helmut repeats as his hands are circling back down to the small of Andre’s back, thumbs digging in on opposing side of his spine making him arch into the touch that borders on the wrong side of painful for just a second. Andre groans, shying away from the touch, but it only makes his cock drag against the towels, the sensation almost as painful as the insistent pressure from Helmut’s fingers.

“No, it’s… I’m sorry,” Andre stutters out in between heavy breaths, his voice muffled by the fabric of the pillow. He flexes his hands, fighting the urge to ball them into fists, knowing Helmut would only smooth them out again.

One of Helmut’s hands runs up the length of his spine, almost a caress, if Andre didn’t know he was doing it to check the relaxed sequence of his vertebrae. His palm settles at the nape of his neck, gentle pressure as his fingers skim through the downy hair there. “It’s okay, really,” he says again, something like amusement colouring his voice. “I’ve seen you sweat, and puke, and bleed. You think this would faze me?”

It’s like an ice-cold shower. Andre knows Helmut means it to be reassuring, but it feels the opposite to his already frayed nerves. Shame jumps his heartbeat, destroying the arousal he felt before, his body breaking out in cold sweat. It’s the kind of response he’s had so often, listening to men use his sexuality as a slur to put down someone even when they’d had their own cock up his arse or in his mouth only hours before, the kind of gut wrenching realisation of just how unspeakable his desires are in a world set up for a different kind of normal. It makes his stomach churn with humiliation and disgust.

“Well, thank God I don’t disgust you then. Thank God for your fucking professionalism,” he spits out, the last word like an insult. He drags his hands up to either side of his shoulders, pushing upwards. “Get off me.” He can feel Helmut’s confusion at the sudden shift in his mood, but Helmut always caught himself quickly, and doesn’t budge, his hand tightening minutely against Andre’s neck.

“I said, get fucking off me,” Andre repeats, his voice shrill even to his own ears. He struggles again, but his muscles are heavy with fatigue, his head a mess anyway. The fight he puts up must feel like child’s play to Helmut’s controlled calm. He wants to get back on the bike, ride out the spike of adrenaline. He wants to drink himself through the whole of the bar he knows Helmut keeps in the bookshelf in the living room, artful display of expensive bottles that had been gifts from wealthy clients, mostly. He wants to hide in the corner and cry, can feel the tell-tale sting at the back of his eyes.

As it is, all he can bring himself to do is reach up to the nearby bed and drag down the blanket to cover himself when Helmut finally lets go of him, the stupid Disney print mocking him too as he wraps the fabric around himself. He scoots up to sit in the corner the bed makes with the wall, his legs drawn up against himself, one arm around his knees, the other pulling the blanket tight around himself.

Helmut has let him go but hasn’t moved, kneeling on the floor only a couple feet away. His face is marked by confusion, his hands and wrists still shiny from the oil where they rest against his thighs, gleaming in the dim light of the room. Andre’s eyes focus there, unable to hold under Helmut’s steady gaze.

“There isn’t a single thing about you that would ever disgust me.”

There is nothing but sincerity in Helmut’s voice. Andre can feel the hot wetness of tears well up in his eyes, hides his face against the ridiculously soft fabric of the blanket.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t catch me by surprise,” Helmut continues when Andre doesn’t even attempt a reply. “Are you going tell me what I did wrong?”

Andre sniffs, his head starting to throb from repressed emotions and unshed tears. “You didn’t,” he tries, but his voice wavers and he swallows heavily, trying to get a grip on himself. “Sorry. It wasn’t you,” he brings out, shaking his head trying to clear it. “My head’s a mess.”

Helmut is silent for a long moment. “Do you want me to go? Want to be alone?” he asks eventually.

The urge to say yes, to make him go away and curl up on himself the way he always does, is strong. He’s used to licking his wounds by himself, barely lets anyone see when he’s been wounded at all, doesn’t show anyone the scars either. He knows Helmut would obey him too, wouldn’t dare to force anything on Andre no matter how much he might want to. Andre shakes his head quietly.

Helmut’s shoulders are a little less tense when Andre glances at him, his face still that controlled calm that Andre has come to depend on over the past two decades.

“This isn’t like Tokyo at all, is it,” Helmut muses, his voice a gentle rumble.

No, it isn’t, Andre thinks, but he only shakes his head a little. Tokyo feels like more than a life time away now, the glitz of the city, the crowd buzzing with incomprehensible words around him. Andre had been on the verge of losing himself back then, alone at the other end of the world with temptation on every street corner, losing sight of the path that had brought him there, the path that was supposed to take him further. He is still on that path now, even though it never took him to the F1 seat that was once the ultimate goal, his various championship titles more than making up for the one missed chance.

This is no path at all. It’s being lost at sea, with the only decision in his hand whether or not to jump overboard and end it on his own terms.

In the stormy dark, Helmut feels like the murky beam of a lighthouse.

“Don’t go,” Andre whispers, pushing his face into the blanket again.

“I won’t,” Helmut agrees. “I’m right here.” Andre can hear him shuffle closer, the tentative touch of Helmut’s fingers against the bare skin of his ankle where the blanket is too short to cover him whole. “This okay?”

Andre doesn’t answer, just tips forwards, and a moment later his forehead is pressed to Helmut’s neck, strong arms holding him like he’d hoped they would. The sob that works itself up his throat catches him by surprise, but once he starts, he can’t seem to stop himself. Helmut’s arms tighten around him, rocking him gently when he shakes through one, two dozen more wet sobs, hold him long after he’s cried himself out.

“Shh, quiet now,” Helmut says when Andre tries to speak later, never letting go of his hand as he gets to his feet, pulling Andre up after him. He looks at him for a long moment, and Andre forces himself to meet Helmut’s gaze. His eyelashes flutter when Helmut lifts his hand, touching Andre’s cheek that’s wet with tears and snot with the back of his fingers before he leans in, rests his cheek against Andre’s. “Nothing disgusting,” he says quietly, and Andre thinks his knees are going to give out under him.

Without protest he allows Helmut to lead him out of the room, to take him to his own bedroom. The print of his blanket clashes harshly with the calm, muted tones of the design, but Helmut doesn’t make Andre let go of it, just bundles him into the bed, covers him with his own blanket too before he slips in between the sheets, pulling him close. Andre knows Helmut won’t let this go, that he’s going to make him talk sooner rather than later, but for now he pushes the thought away as he closes his eyes, his face pressed in the dark space at Helmut’s neck, borrowing a little calm for himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Coldness drags Andre from deep sleep to the edge of waking. He turns over, feeling the cool linen sheets drag across his naked skin. When he blinks, his eyes are only met with darkness, the blinds drawn in front of the window, the bluish hue of moonlight on snow creeping around the edges. He doesn’t know how late – early, his mind supplies – it is, but it’s still hours from dawn. He shivers, drawing the sheets up higher around his shoulders. The cotton blanket he remembers being wrapped up in earlier has slipped away, probably kicked off the bed in his sleep. He’s too tired to go looking for it, too tired to get up and find clothes.

Helmut’s body is a source of heat only inches away from him. He’s lying on his back, one arm unselfconsciously stretched towards the headboard, the other tugged away somewhere beneath the blanket. Andre scoots closer, watching him sleep, the steady, calm rise and fall of his chest almost lulling him back to sleep too, but his skin feels cold, his feet icy.

Andre reaches out for him, his fingers finding the washed-out fabric of his t shirt, the expanse of his stomach covered with a thin sheen of coarse hairs where the hem of his shirt has moved up. Helmut makes a soft noise, his head twisting to face Andre, but his eyes stay closed, his breathing even, lost in sleep too deep to be woken by the touch. It encourages Andre to move closer until he’s tugged against Helmut’s side, immediately feeling his body heat through the single layer of clothes Helmut is wearing. Andre shivers again, but out of comfort this time, pulling the sheet tight around them both. He can hear the steady drum of Helmut’s heart where he’s resting his head on his chest, and it drags him under within seconds.

 

 

 

When he wakes hours later, he’s alone.

Andre stretches across the width of the bed, his body heavy. His face is pressed into the soft pillows, the blanket slipped down to the middle of his back, exposing his shoulder blades to the draft. His half hard cock is pushed into the mattress, sending a jolt through him as he squirms to pull the blanket higher. When he turns his head to the side, he has to blink against the warm glare of insistent sunshine shining past the half-open curtains. He sighs, turning his face back into the inviting darkness of the pillow and tries to shut off his mind for another couple minutes. His senses are alert though, feeling the slight draft from the open door to the hallway. There’s no noise coming from the rest of the house apart from the light tick of the wooden clock further down the hallway, echoing through the silence, the lingering scent of cold coffee. With another sigh he turns his head, curling his hands around the pillow to raise himself up. He reaches out, palming the mattress on the far side of the bed, but the space has been cold for a while.

His fingertips bump against a neat stack of clothes close to the edge of the mattress. He pulls them closer, recognising one of his t shirts and sweatpants folded, and a post-it stuck on top. He picks up the note, squinting at it.

took max for a walk, be back around 10.

if you’re awake then, we can go skiing

h.

 

Andre blinks, then cranes his neck to catch the digital numbers of the clock on the bedside table. It’s just past nine.

 

As promised, Andre can hear the keys in the lock roughly an hour later, the door opening to allow Max into the house, running for the kitchen to jump up at Andre’s leg and greet him, Helmut following a few steps behind.

“Ready for the slopes?” Helmut asks in greeting as he’s pulling off his boots, setting them on a plastic tray next to the door to catch the melting snow.

Andre nods, still cuddling Max. “I made breakfast.”

Helmut gives him space, Andre realises when he makes an appreciative noise, going past Andre to put a cup under the coffee machine, switching on the button for a fill. He tells Andre about where he took Max, about the weather forecast he got when he passed by one of the ski lifts, the perfect conditions up on the slopes today. Grateful for the breather, Andre mirrors Helmut’s good mood, even though he knows that his trainer is far from letting him get away with the break down - and yes, he’s self-reflected enough to admit to that now in the light of day - of the night before, but it eases the breathless feeling and the lump in his throat Andre had been fighting with for the past hour. The way Helmut grabs his shoulder and squeezes lightly before he sits down to help himself to the food Andre placed on the table, confirms that to Andre.

But for the next hours Andre can lose himself in the sunshine and the snow and the steep slopes that demand all his attention and skill.

 

 

 

It’s nightfall by the time they return, having taken the last gondola up the mountain before the slopes closed. Darkness falls fast in between the mountains, swallowing the villages in mere minutes. They walk back to the house with their skis and sticks shouldered, their faces flushed from exertion and cold. Andre’s muscles ache pleasantly from the long workout, skiing not feeling like training at all, always giving him the thought of vacation more than something he does to keep in shape. It’s his favourite kind of exercise.

They get into the house through the garage, leaving their equipment and snow-wet clothes hanging from the pipes in the ceiling to dry. Andre follows Helmut towards the stairs, grinning when he sees Helmut walk over to the control panel of the small indoor sauna he’s set up as part of his trainings room, switching it on to preheat.

“Treat?” Andre asks, catching Helmut’s smile.

“Not everyone is a young as you anymore,” Helmut complains good-naturedly.

“Come on, you’re still as fit as I am,” Andre says, clapping him on the shoulder and steers Helmut towards the stairs.

“I take that as a compliment and not as a request to work you harder,” Helmut answers easily, one eyebrow raised, making Andre groan.

 

 

 

After dinner Helmut returns to his office to check his mails while Andre takes Max out for his evening round. Caught up in the never-ending joy the dog gets from chasing snowflakes that fall thick as feathers from the dark sky, Andre loses track of time, walking a longer route than he had set his mind to. When he returns to the house, his nose immediately picks up the herbal scent of the oils he knows are used for the sauna. He prepares Max’s food, then heads upstairs for a quick shower. Towelling himself dry, he picks up a fresh towel and slings it around his waist, not bothering to get dressed before he walks down the stairs into the basement.

His toes curl when a draft of cold air curls around his ankles, the sound of the garden door closing greeting him as he comes down the stairs. Helmut is dressed in a bathrobe and flipflops, his damp skin flushed as he returns inside. His wet hair is sticking up in messy tufts, the residue of quickly melting snow around the hem of the bathrobe. Andre shivers in sympathy, goose bumps breaking out over his skin thinking about the cold outside.

“Back just in time for round two,” Helmut says, hanging his bathrobe on a hook on the outside of the wooden sauna panelling, next to a clean one he put out for Andre. A wave of pungent, hot air wafts into the room when he pulls the door open, all eucalyptus, clear and sharp, a cold scent to mix with the hot, damp air.

Andre watches his naked back through the glass door as it swings shut. Helmut steps up onto the lower bench to elevate himself onto the top one, stretching out on his stomach. Andre follows, grabbing one of the towels from the stack on the shelf next to the door. The air is cloying, thick as hot syrup as he inhales it, starting to open his lungs immediately. He shakes out the towel on the lower bench, stretching out on his back with a deep inhale. As soon as he settles, the movements inside the enclosed space ceasing, the heat draws in around them in the still air. He closes his eyes against the low glow of the lamps set into the ceiling, feeling the heat start to seep into his sore muscles.

“How are you today?”

Andre tries not to show any reaction to the words he’d expected to come earlier rather than later. Helmut asking him now, when he’s pinned down if not in the literal sense is just like him; leaving Andre with the choice not to answer, to walk away, but in a way that would feel more awkward than just answering, than just letting it happen. “Sore, in a good way,” he says, flexing his legs to feel the lingering ache of overworked muscles. He opens his eyes to find that Helmut has scooted to the edge of the upper bench, one of his arms close to the edge, resting his chin on it to look down at Andre. “Tired, a little frayed,” he admits, lifting his hand to tap a finger against his temple.

Helmut looks at him for a long time, long enough for Andre to watch little drops of perspiration build along his hairline, his hair darken wetly, long enough for his scrutiny to make Andre twitch and avoid his eyes, look past him at the ceiling. From the corner of his eyes he can see Helmut shift, his arm dangling over the edge of the bench. His hand is a lose curl, the index finger extended as it hangs over Andre’s chest. “And here?”

The soft touch of Helmut’s finger to the centre of his chest feels like a brand that lingers even after it’s gone. It burns, the heat of the room seemingly focused there now that his attention has been drawn to a single point. Andre exhales, surprised that his chest doesn’t just deflate entirely, as hollow as it feels; punctured like a plastic balloon. Is that how he feels, hollow, empty? It’s so cliché he can’t help a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He sounds like a fucking bad romance novel in his own head, a depressing cloud of melancholia stuck in a meatsuit primed for a job he still loves, just not with all his heart anymore. He’s too old now to post-pone the rest of his life to a vague ‘sometime in the future’, or ‘after I’m done racing’, not when that illusive deadline jumps closer with every year that he’s racing towards it. There’s less than a handful of days left in this year, his friends pairing up to spend it with their loved ones, and Andre tells himself it’s not jealousy he feels: he wouldn’t wish away their happiness for anything in the world, but he can’t deny that somehow it seems like he’s missed out, that for all the glory and successes he accumulated over the years, in one field he still feels like a loser, as helplessly lost as a stranded car in the gravel.

“Lonely,” he says in the end, even though the word makes him cringe inwardly, makes some part of him rear its ugly head shouting that he isn’t, that he doesn’t need anyone, anyone’s approval, anyone’s help. He swallows against the lump in his throat.

Helmut makes a quiet noise, stifled by the arm he’s resting his head against. He reaches out with his hand, cupping Andre’s cheek, his thumb rubbing along his cheekbone, the corner of his eye where the first wrinkles are settling into his skin, visible not only when he’s laughing. “When you introduced Jev to me, I thought he could be it for you,” he says, his voice even, non-judgemental and Andre can feel the tears run down from the corner of his eyes into his hair, closes them and turns his face into the gentle caress.

“Me too,” he admits, the words spoken quietly. His mind goes back there, to that first spark between him and Jean-Eric right from the start. The casual flirting had only intensified after Andre had come out to him early in their friendship; late-night conversations curled close together trapped in airplanes miles above any border of the world, gentle touches lying next to each other in what Jev later called their siesta camp, not so gentle touches drunk on alcohol and endorphins after Jev’s race wins partying in buzzing nightclubs. Conversations that felt more like confessions, where Jean-Eric had told him about Adrien, and Petra, and Dan, everything about Dan; tales Andre had equalled with stories about Tom, about Ben and James, about one-sided crushes that had Jean-Eric blush and lower his eyelashes shyly and gaze at Andre in a way that made him want to lean in and claim his mouth and his body and his heart, claiming it for just himself. But there had been Kriss too, on his arm whenever they weren’t alone, there was the line of exchangeable models before and after her, the spark in Jean-Eric’s eyes that Andre never learned to convincingly fake whenever a beautiful girl walked past him, the genuine happiness with which Jev told him about the babies his friends had just got, the dream of a family of his own. Andre knew then he could never compete with that, knowing he could never deprive Jean-Eric of it either, not when all he has to offer are cars and pretty pictures and endless halls decked in magazine-chic. “Me too.”

Helmut lets out a long, low sigh. His fingers twitch against Andre’s face. “You deserve so much,” he says simply. There’s no pity in his voice, just genuine affection. “I wish…” he stops, searching for words. “I wish I could give you what you need.”

Andre smirks, leers almost as he looks up at Helmut, though he knows the tears leaking out of his eyes water down his expression. “Now if only you were into cock,” he says crudely. It’s supposed to come out as a joke, to lift the mood and distract his own thoughts from the abyss he’s lingering on the edge of, but somehow the words fall flat, a startling truth to them that Andre only hears himself after he’s voiced them out loud.

Helmut takes his hand away, flicking Andre’s cheek with enough force to make it sting a little, to make him blink his eye closed reflexively. “You always had horrible taste in men. Time,” he adds, nodding at the clock next to the door, showing that nearly half an hour has passed.

A wave of dizziness hits Andre as he sits up, the heat going to his head. The cooler air outside the sauna feels like a blessing and he picks up the bathrobe, slips into it and the flipflops before he dares open the basement door to step outside. Steam rises from his skin and hair with the sudden change of temperature, his body not quite catching up with it, the freezing air not yet feeling as biting as his body works to get rid of the excess heat in his system. There’s no snow on the ground here, a small roof over the entryway keeping it away, and Andre walks to one of the horizontal beams of the structure, leaning against it as he slips one foot out of the flipflop, leaning against the beam as he sticks his toes into the snow.

“When was the last time-“ Helmut asks, letting the words hang in the air like the puffs of mist in front of his face. Andre looks at him over his shoulder, watching how he’s leaned back against the wall. His hair is even more of a mess now, making him look a little wild in the almost dark, only the light from inside shining in through the window in the door, reflected from the snow to cast them in pale half-light. He turns back to the snow, still poking it with his toes, by now numb from the cold.

“London,” Andre says, not having to think far back. “The awards,” he adds when there’s only confused silence from his mentor. Helmut is frowning when Andre spares him another glance.

“But I thought you and Jev never,” Helmut starts only for Andre to interrupt him.

“Not Jev. No. And he was already with Lorene then,” Andre tells him vehemently.

“Who then?” Helmut asks back, genuine curiosity in his voice as Andre knows he’s flipping through the list of people he knew had been at the awards show Andre had also been invited to, his nomination as Rookie of the Year having provided endless jokes throughout the past months. Andre keeps quiet, steps back into his flipflop, scratches at the grain of the wooden beam he’s leaning against, waiting for Helmut to connect the dots. “Oh Andre.”

It wasn’t his best night in the grand scheme of things, Andre has to admit. He shouldn’t have let Jean-Eric talk him into staying at his place, not when Jev had told him he’d wanted to take Lorene along, show her off, their new relationship. And she’d been so beautiful, Andre could only agree, seeing her in this almost see-through confection of layered silk. Jev’s smile had been blindingly bright as he’d taken her hand on the way down to the car, kissing her fingers. Andre had felt like the third wheel, stupid. He should have slept at a hotel instead, not cling on to their space like the ugly duckling in all those teenage romcom movies, only certain there wouldn’t be a gorgeous prince appearing out of nowhere to see him for who he really was and sweep him away into the sunset. Instead, as the evening grew later, he’d found himself at the bar, his back turned to the room as he’d sipped at an expensive glass of whiskey from some obscure Scottish distillery that he had forgotten again by the end of the glass. He’d recognised the hands on the marble countertop gesturing for two more of what he’d been having without having to look up at the man who’d slid onto the barstool next to him, without having to meet his gaze in the mirror behind the bar.

_Rookie,_ Tom had just said, smirking at him sideways, and Andre had emptied the last gulp of his glass, reached for the fresh one the bartender had set down in front of him immediately. _That’s been a while ago now, hasn’t it?_ Andre hadn’t been able to keep his cheeks from pinking up, from remembering, of course he would, and of course Tom knew too, Tom always seemed to know. Andre had put his free hand into his trouser pocket to keep himself from fiddling with the napkin the bartender had put his drink on, feeling the jagged edges of the spare key to Jev’s apartment. Tom had noticed that too, of course. He’d gotten up, his drink in one hand, patting Andre’s shoulder cordially, and then slipped the familiar shape of a plastic key card into the pocket of Andre’s suit jacket concealed by the proximity of their bodies and the practised gesture before leaving to go mingle among the crowd.

Andre wasn’t going to use it, he’d told himself over the next hour that he’d watched Tom make his rounds through the crowd. He wasn’t going to follow the invitation, the offer. He was stronger than that, he wasn’t going to jump to whatever attention Tom granted him as he well pleased. But his resolve had melted like the ice in his glass, and he’d shut off that nagging voice in his head when he’d taken the elevator up to the room number written in marker pen on the plastic of the key card.

_I missed this,_ Tom had said when he’d taken off Andre’s suit jacket and bow tie, unbuttoned his shirt to run his fingers along Andre’s chest, to touch where he wanted. _You’re so good at this,_ he’d praised when he’d pushed Andre to his knees, unzipped his trousers, fed him his cock, his fingers twisted in Andre’s hair. Andre had closed his eyes and sunk into it, into the easy pleasure of an act he loved, if not the person he was doing it to.

Andre had let himself into Jean-Eric’s flat hours later, long enough to be certain the only sounds from the master bedroom next door would be those of two bodies sleeping. He’d been exhausted and strung tight, twitching with left over, nervous energy. He hadn’t expected for Jev to still be awake, sitting in his boxers and a thin robe at the kitchen island playing idly with his phone.

_Couldn’t sleep,_ Jev had offered sheepishly with a look at Andre, a frown. Andre knew what he must have looked like then, his tired eyes and the taste of Tom’s dick still on his bruised lips. He’d thought about it, for a long moment he’d thought about walking over to Jean-Eric, to press into his personal space and tip his head up and kiss him with all that pent-up frustration and need that crashed over him every time Jev looked at him like he did then, all open face and sleep-soft eyes. He’d gone closer, watching Jean-Eric follow him with his eyes until they were close to each other, close enough for Andre to smell the scent of Lorene’s perfume clinging to Jean-Eric’s skin and the robe he had shrugged on, and he’d reached past Jev to the glass in front of him, expecting water, pleasantly surprised when the taste of vodka cleared his mouth.

“I don’t know why you keep letting him do this to you,” Helmut says, his words dragging Andre back into his body. He can feel a shiver running up his legs as the world comes back into sharp focus, the way his wet hair starts to freeze against his skull, the cold night air penetrating the layers of soft cotton wrapped around him.

Andre wants to go back inside, but Helmut is still leaning against the wall next to the door, almost like he’s guarding it. There’s something fierce in his gaze as he’s watching Andre, a protectiveness he’s used to seeing on Helmut’s face, but something darker too, almost like anger, and Andre can’t hold his gaze, looks away. He shouldn’t feel ashamed for what he’s doing, it’s his life after all, his decisions, but just the idea of disappointing Helmut makes something churn in Andre’s stomach.

“God, he shouldn’t treat you like that,” Helmut says again, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Like what?” Andre can’t help asking. “Like what?” he repeats when he can see Helmut bite the inside of his cheek. “Like a rent boy? Is that what you think? Jesus, Helmut, we’re adults, it’s just sex. It’s stress relief,” he says, and he wishes he didn’t sound so defensive, wants to blame the chattering of his teeth and the tremble of his voice on the encroaching cold outside.

“Stress relief?” Helmut parrots back. “Then it should make you feel better, right? Then it shouldn’t have me pick up your pieces.” It’s a punch to the gut, a low blow, and Andre can see that Helmut regrets having said them as soon as they’ve left his lips. “I’m sorry.”

Andre wants to be angry, wants to rage, but he’s too tired to bring up the energy, and he knows that Helmut is right, that whatever arguments he could think of would sound hollow to his own ears and wouldn’t fool Helmut either. So he just glares at Helmut in a way that’s probably more hurt than angry and pulls the door open to go back inside. He picks up a bottle of water, unscrews the top and takes long gulps before he hangs the bathrobe back on the hook by the sauna and opens the door. The heat hits him like a brick wall. He takes a steadying breath that almost hurts in his lungs before he catches himself, and steps up onto the upper bench, stretching out on Helmut’s towel. He can see the disapproving purse of Helmut’s mouth when he follows two minutes later but bites the inside of his cheek when Helmut mutters something about being unhygienic; Andre just wants to sulk.

Helmut sighs, rearranging Andre’s towel so that it drapes down from the upper bench over the lower one onto the floor, then sits on the lower bench and leans his elbow next to Andre’s head, watching him idly. “Is it so surprising that I don’t get why you allow them to hurt you like that?”

Andre snorts. “You never liked Tom,” he says, repeating an argument they’d had a hundred times over the past decade.

“This isn’t about Tom,” Helmut argues back. No, it’s not, but it’s easy territory, all arguments that Andre has heard before: _he’s just using you; you’re not more than an available distraction for him when he’s bored; he can’t offer you anything; he’d never choose you over his career, over his legacy, over his family; Jesus, Andre, he’s old enough to be your dad._ The last one Helmut only had said once, the implications behind it had been enough to make Andre punch a hole through the drywall next to where Helmut had been standing at the time and storm out of the room before Helmut could add another word, and he’d been wise enough not to bring that point up again. Andre almost wants him to start on that tangent again if only so that he can tune out his words, to not have to think about it anymore, but Helmut doesn’t give him that excuse. “Why do you always set yourself up to be mistreated? You should be-“ he stops, looking away.

“Should be what?” Andre asks when Helmut doesn’t offer anything else. He cranes his neck, trying to catch Helmut’s eyes, but he’s still looking away, focused on some point on the other side of the door. “That almost sounds like you’ve given it an awful lot of thought,” he adds viciously. Something flashes across Helmut’s face, but Andre can’t tell what, not with the way he’s turned away, shutting Andre out. It makes him want to scream. “No, do tell me how you think I should be treated. It almost sounds like you’re jealous.”

When Helmut finally cracks, his voice is calm, quiet as he’s always been, but it leaves Andre’s ears ringing like a clap of thunder. “What do you expect I think when I woke up this morning with you naked and hard, pressed against me from head to toe?” It’s that ice bucket feeling again, and it must be showing on Andre’s face, because before he can shrink away, apologize to Helmut for having to put up with that, with him, Helmut’s hand is at his shoulder, keeping him from moving away. “Fuck, Andre, do you really think so low of yourself? You’re so thick sometimes. I’m not disgusted by you, far from it, the opposite from it, and watching you let yourself get hurt in the faintest hope that someday someone like Tom will change his mind about you and actually give you what you need is painful.”

Andre’s train of thought stutters to a screeching halt before it restarts, a moment of breathless disbelief. He can’t help the ugly sneer from stretching over his lips. “What is this, then? You offering? Are you propositioning me? You’re not even gay.”

Helmut closes his eyes for a second. “This isn’t about me either, Andre. Fuck, you’re slippery like an eel.”

“How is it not? Do I need to get my ears checked or did you just tell me you’d have sex with me?” The ridiculousness about what they’re arguing is making Andre’s head spin. He hasn’t felt like he’d been in control of himself in days, weeks really, grateful if struggling to accept the familiar structure of spending time with Helmut, but he can’t help the feeling that the carefully maintained control Helmut has is slipping, and it makes him queasy. He’d thought there wasn’t anything in the world that could take them apart, that could threaten the bond between them, and for a split, clear moment he thinks he’s found it, the one thing that could put a wedge between them. It’s an exhilarating feeling, the tangible power of making something beautiful break.

A pained expression crosses Helmut’s face and he reaches up, scrubs his palm across it and up into his hair, making it stand up on end. “Okay, I did, and I shouldn’t. I’m sorry. That was unprofessional of me, but I just… I don’t know how I can make you see what I see.”

“What do you see then?” Andre bites back, already on the defensive again. “Someone who needs protecting? Someone who keeps going back to the people who hurt him because it’s the only people he can go to?” He snaps his traitorous mouth shut before more can spill out.

“Is that what you think about yourself?” Helmut asks, genuine curiosity back in his voice. Andre stubbornly bites his lip, refusing to comment. “You’re beautiful, to me,” he says, ignoring Andre’s derisive snort. “Not like a woman, but you are. When I look at you, I see all the thousands of hours of work you put into your body, all your determination and will. All the passion and ambition in your sport, in the goal you wanted to achieve. All the things you gave up for it, you missed out on.” Andre swallows hard, not used to outright praise from Helmut, who never holds back on feedback but rarely words it as anything but constructive criticism. “I see all the hours _I_ put into you, all the years you allowed me to play guinea pig with you on the trust that what I thought could work would benefit you in the end. You shaped my skill as much as I did your body, so how do you think I could not be attracted to you?”

Andre pushes himself up to his elbows, craning his neck to look at Helmut. “You’re into me because I’m _work_?”

“You know what, forget that I said anything at all,” Helmut replies, his jaw clenching. He gets to his feet, twists his hand around the towel he’d been sitting on to pull it over his arm before he leaves the sauna. Andre watches him throw it into the hamper before he puts the bathrobe back on, stepping out into the garden. With a dull thunk Andre lets his head fall back against the bench, then lifts his hands to cover his face. He wants to scream. The way Helmut is treating him, the emotions he’s dragging from the securely sealed vaults inside Andre’s mind give him emotional whiplash. His head is spinning and not just from the cloying heat. His fingernails are digging painful halfmoon shapes into his skin.

The door is drawn partway open again, but Andre doesn’t lift his hands from his face.

“I’m done for tonight. You know how to switch this thing off. I’m going to bed,” Helmut says, pausing for a short moment. “Drink some more water please, I don’t want you to get heat stroke.”

The door closes, leaving Andre alone with the muted sounds of Helmut’s feet on the wooden stairs and the quiet gurgling of the steamer on the wall of the sauna while Andre gnaws on his lower lip, trying to sort out his mind, to find one clear thought that doesn’t revert back to all the complicated things Helmut has said to him during the past 24 hours, to the precarious tilt their relationship has suddenly got. He wants to set it straight, wants to get rid of that strange feeling of vertigo that is making his head spin when he sits up, his knees weak when he pushes himself off the bench.

Andre takes the towel with him, following Helmut’s example to throw it into the hamper, then turns to the control panel of the sauna, initiating the cool down sequence. He doesn’t go outside though, the sudden silence pressing on his nerves; he doesn’t, can’t be alone. With swift steps he ascends onto the ground floor of the house, his wet feet leaving damp marks on the wooden floor as he goes. From above, he can hear a shower running.

When he’s reached the landing, he can see that the door to Helmut’s room isn’t quite closed. He pushes it open, can hear the shower running from the en-suite bathroom. Hesitating for only a moment, he walks through the room, fingers curling around the handle of the bathroom door.

Helmut has his hands braced against the tiles, his back to the room as he allows the water to cascade down his shoulders and spine from the large showerhead overhead. There’s tension in his body, and when Andre closes the door behind himself deliberately loud, he startles, twisting to glance at Andre over his shoulder before he looks straight ahead again, then hangs his head. “What?”

“You’re not gay,” Andre blurts out, kind of not really phrasing it as the question it sounds like in his own head.

Helmut sighs, turning around to face Andre through the glass wall of the shower. “Andre, it’s not- “

“Just answer the damn question,” Andre interrupts, stopping him from whatever he was going to say. He doesn’t want long answers now. His head is already hurting from all the things he’s heard tonight, all the things he’s trying to get straight. “Yes or no?”

Chastised, Helmut shrinks back slightly, raising his hand to wipe the water off his face. “Not in general, no.”

Andre takes a step closer to the shower. He can feel the muscles around his eyes twitching with nervous energy. “But you’re attracted to me?” He has reached the edge of the shower, reaches out to rest one palm against the glass that’s cool under his overheated skin.

“Yes.”

No qualifier this time, Andre thinks dryly as he shakes his head. It doesn’t make sense to him, he can’t follow the line of thought Helmut seems tangled up in. He steps around the glass panel of the shower, feeling the first stray drops of water hit him from the shower head as he drops the towel that had still been slung around his waist, steps into the shower.

“Then have me,” he says, and he knows his chin is raised in defiance, the words more a dare than an offer. He takes another step closer. “Touch me.”

“Andre,” Helmut repeats, his voice hoarse and tired, but the minute flicker of his eyes down Andre’s body is enough to give him away, to make Andre push. The heat from the sauna is still under his skin, making him barely register the hot water of the shower as he steps under it and into Helmut’s personal space.

“Come on, touch me, I know you want to,” he says again, goading Helmut on, leaning forwards so that their chests are almost touching.

Helmut frowns, lifting his hand and turning it to touch Andre’s cheek with the back of his fingers. It’s not the kind of touch Andre expected, and he closes his eyes, feeling the droplets of water cling to his eyelashes. “Jesus, Andre, you did not cool down, did you?” Helmut murmurs, his fingers moving up to touch Andre’s forehead. They feel almost cold against his overheated skin despite the warm water from the shower.

Andre opens his eyes, wants to say something in return, but the quick movement of Helmut’s hand going to the dials on the wall is the only warning he gets before the water turns ice cold. He curses, jerking away, but Helmut’s hand grasps his shoulder, keeping them both under the spray, gasping himself at the shock of cold water, and Andre lunges forwards instead of back and crashes their mouths together. He takes advantage of the moment it takes Helmut to catch on, slinging his arms around Helmut’s body to draw him close, shivering under the onslaught of the icy water on them, licking into his mouth. Helmut’s fingers tighten on his shoulder, a bruising grip to skin that’s starting to go numb being hit by the cold water, but he doesn’t push Andre away, responds to Andre’s desperate lips, and Andre forgets everything around them. Helmut’s mouth is hot, the rasp of his stubble softened by the water and the long soak in the sauna earlier, water running down their faces making it hard to breathe. Andre feels like he’s drowning, like he can’t get enough air into his lungs. His fingers slip over Helmut’s neck, up into his hair and down his back, trying to touch everywhere at the same time, trying to find something to hold on as his knees grow weak when one of Helmut’s hands leaves his body again to shut off the flow of water blindly. Andre’s skin breaks out in goose bumps when the air hits his skin, feeling almost hot now that the icy water has stopped, and his nerves can’t keep up with the sudden change in stimulation. He shudders, breaking the kiss as he feels his body break out in cold sweat, buries his face against Helmut’s neck and clings to him waiting for the room to stop spinning, to get his bearings back.

His skin prickles, the phantom touch of the numbing water drops still hitting his shoulders and neck almost painful now they’re gone, his nerves trying to readjust. He can’t hold in a soft noise, muffled as he presses closer into Helmut’s embrace.

“You’re a mess,” Helmut says, but there’s obvious fondness in his voice, his lips touching the shell of Andre’s ear as he speaks before pressing against his neck.


	4. Chapter 4

Andre clings to the brink of sleep for long minutes. The bed is warm around him, the mattress and pillows soft. He breathes in deeply, feeling his chest expand against the solidity of another body in the bed with him, his arms slung around them, his right arm numb from where Helmut’s weight is pressing it into the mattress, trapped below his ribcage. Andre barely moves for fear of waking the other, of destroying the peaceful quiet in the room that’s only broken by the sound of their breathing.

He can’t remember the last time he’s woken up like this. The closest he’d come to cuddling with Jev in his sleep had been the weight of Jev’s head against his shoulder on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic. Tom hadn’t allowed him to stay the night for a long time, and waking next to James has rarely occurred without a hangover already throbbing behind his eyeballs. No, this is nice, genuinely nice, and Andre decides to make it last for as long as possible, carefully snuggling closer, resting his forehead against the back of Helmut’s neck, breathing in the sleep-warm scent of his t shirt and skin underneath, the hints of eucalyptus clinging to them both despite the shower they had.

The scent takes him back to the night before, to the rollercoaster of emotions that still have him confused and scratched raw, uncertain what to do with the things revealed between him and the man he’s currently clinging to, has been clinging to in one way or another, depended on, for the past two decades. It makes his stomach churn with a kind of low simmering panic about his uncanny ability to ruin things that are good for him, and the possibilities opening between them that he doesn’t dare think about right now. He lets both go, tries to at least for now, just staying in the moment.

It lasts all too briefly.

Before long, Andre feels Helmut stir. The rhythm of his breathing that’s making Helmut’s chest move beneath the hand Andre has inched in between the fabric of his shirt and his skin is changing as he wakes slowly. He moves his legs, his feet cold where they touch Andre’s. When he shifts his weight, circulation returns to Andre’s arm, making it sting uncomfortably. He scoots away, and Andre lets him, doesn’t make him stay close, as Helmut brings enough space between them to roll onto his back, rubbing at his face with his hands. Andre watches him in the dim light of early morning, early enough for only the light of the street lamps outside reflected by the snow around the window sills to sneak past the curtains and into the room. Andre isn’t sure what, how much Helmut can see in the half light, but it must be enough to discern that Andre is awake, as he reaches out, turns onto his side to face Andre, his palm cupping Andre’s cheek, stroking over the stubble that’s almost on the way to a patchy beard by now, Andre not having bothered to shave over the past days. His eyes fall shut under the tender caress, the tips of Helmut’s fingers scratching gently along his hairline. Andre sighs, all but melting into the bed.

“If you’re going to ask me how I’m feeling I’m going to punch you,” he murmurs, knowing that the softness of his voice is betraying the threat. He blinks one eye open when he hears Helmut chuckle, watching the twitch of the corner of his mouth. “Are you going to push me away if I kiss you?” he asks, trying to keep his tone neutral.

“You shouldn’t.”

“Yeah, but are you going to stop me?”

Andre has closed his eyes again, and when he gets no reply, he takes that as a no and leans in slowly, blindly searching until his nose bumps against Helmut’s. He stops, lingering like that as they’re breathing the same air. He can feel the heat of Helmut’s skin against his own, can feel the faintest of touch when the motion of wetting his lips is enough to bridge the gap between them. When Helmut doesn’t move away, doesn’t use the hand that’s slid down from Andre’s cheek to the back of his neck to push him away, Andre closes the remaining distance between them, pressing their lips together.

It’s chaste, barely more than a declaration of intent as Andre hadn’t thought Helmut would allow this. He moves his lips gently against Helmut’s, feeling the familiar rasp of stubble against his lips, sighing into it. He doesn’t expect Helmut to use the opportunity to lick into his mouth, a startled little sound escaping him that’s quickly lost between them as the kiss intensifies. The hand at his neck pulls Andre closer, tilting his head for a better angle, and Andre goes with it, his own fingers twisting into the front of Helmut’s shirt. The longing Andre can taste is stealing his breath more thoroughly than he could have imagined, and it feels like drowning. They’re both clothed in shirts and pants, but Andre feels bared as he rolls onto his back, dragging Helmut along to lay half on top of him, half against his side, pushed into the bed by the one person he already trusts more than any other in the world. It’s a heady feeling and Andre takes a deep breath when they finally break apart, pushing his head back into the pillow and just gazes up at the ceiling for a long moment, trying to sort his spinning thoughts.

“How long?” he asks quietly, almost regretting his words when Helmut pulls back, but the other is just propping himself up on one elbow, laying on his side to look down at him.

“You don’t want to know,” Helmut says, an almost wistful expression on his face when Andre tries to glare at him through the half-light. He leans down, brushing his lips over Andre’s cheekbone.

“How long?” Andre asks again, his voice a murmur that is almost quieted by Helmut’s lips seeking out his, but Andre doesn’t let himself get distracted, keeping the kiss from becoming deep. “Tell me.”

“Your first Lemans,” Helmut whispers, like he doesn’t dare tell.

Andre frowns, moving his head back a fraction. “2011?”

“No,” Helmut shakes his head minutely, combing his fingers through Andre’s hair, caressing him like a pet. “Your _first_ Lemans.”

It’s not that he’s forgotten about that year, 2009, it’s that he doesn’t like to think about it, not when it’s drowned by almost a decade of successes with Audi afterwards. 2009 feels incredibly far away, the exhilaration of that first time tainted with the feel of utter loss of control throughout the race: their strategy falling to pieces even before the start when Nahrain had pulled that silly stunt jumping over the pit wall and dislocated his shoulder minutes before the engines were revving up for the flying start, their meticulously planned timetable blown to smithereens. They’d had more luck than reason to even finish the race, their seventh place finish the kind of result that might have gone under the view of the media but had impressed the experts, the call from Audi for a talk in his inbox even before the garages had closed after the race had finished. Still, the thing he remembers most from those 24 hours are the anxiety and desperation and exhaustion that had carried him through the night, not the celebration afterwards, and it’s not a feeling he likes to linger on.

“Why?” he asks, the confusion palpable in his voice.

The small smile around Helmut’s lips is indulgent. He strokes his fingertips along Andre’s hairline, down over the arch of his eyebrows. “That was your best drive, you know? Ever. I don’t think I got even a minute of sleep, I thought if I blink, I’d miss something crucial, that you’d crash or so. And then you got out of the car and Charles got back in. I don’t know, it was some time past midnight, and you hadn’t slept yet, you were too riled up, but I know I had to make you sleep or you wouldn’t be able to concentrate during your next stint.”

Yes, Andre does remember, the adrenaline had almost made him frizz out of his own skin. They’d gone for as long as they could for their stints, their maximum of three hours they had decided before dragged out to four, four and a half to give the other enough time to rest. The little camper van they had parked behind the garage in the paddock. Andre hadn’t been able to drag his eyes from the screens in the pits after he had handed over the car, glued to catch any glimpse of their car caught by the cameras, the strange noise he had imagined he’d heard towards the end of the stint but couldn’t pin point, no confirmation from any readouts of data to hint at imminent danger to the car or the other driver. It had taken Helmut’s firm hands pulling the helmet from his hands, the claw like grip he’d still clutched it in.

_Go have a shower, it’s out of your hands now_ , Helmut had told him sternly as he’d stored Andre’s helmet and gloves on the shelf in the garage. Andre had twitched restlessly, the residue of the car’s vibrations still making his body shake slightly _. 15 minutes. Jerk off or something, I’m going to get you some food. Then you’re going to sleep. Go_. Helmut had grasped his shoulder, pushing him in the direction of the back door that lead into the paddock. _You’re no use to anyone if you aren’t rested enough to take over in four hours._

Andre had followed the voice of reason that Helmut had become for him through so many years by then, almost run out of the garage to the camper van. The bathroom had been tiny and plastic, the shower barely big enough for him to stand upright in, near to no water pressure. He had fisted his hand around his cock and brought himself off within a minute or two, his body succumbing easily to the release even though his mind had been elsewhere, already pounding the track again.

He had been restlessly lying on the cot that served as his bed by the time that Helmut had returned, pushing a plastic plate of food at him that Andre had wolfed down dutifully, tasting nothing, his mind preoccupied and not listening to what Helmut was saying until Helmut had taken the empty plate from his fingers and put it aside, pushing Andre to stretch out on the cot, crawl beneath the thin blanket as he’d shut off the lights, but there hadn’t been any real darkness, the lights from the paddock flowing in through the thin curtains across the plastic window panes, the noises from people walking past filtering in through paper-thin walls. Andre had opened his mouth to protest, to complain about the impossibility to find rest, but Helmut had shushed him, returned to the cot and sat down on it next to Andre’s head, covering his eyes with the palm of his hand.

_Two hours. I’m going to wake you if something happens earlier, your race engineer is going to text me if there’s anything fishy going on,_ Helmut had told him. His hand had lifted from Andre’s eyes only when he’d been sure Andre would keep them closed, starting to rub soothingly at his temples not unlike he was doing now.

Andre blinks up at him, shuddering at how the memory overlaps with the here and now, his mind replaying the anxiety all over again, the rapid beat of his heart, but the soothing feel of Helmut’s hands too. Scooting closer, Andre tries to rid himself of the tension that he knows has instinctively fallen over his body, curling closer against Helmut’s body. Helmut’s feet are still cold, and he twines their legs together, rubbing along them to warm them up.

“I sat there, just trying to make sure you got some rest, and the trust you put in me, the way you just gave in… I’m sure I was the only person you allowed that, I think it just poleaxed me,” Helmut admits, his tone reverent.

“I still do, trust you with everything,” Andre says quietly. His fingers play with the fabric of the shirt Helmut is wearing, dipping into the low collar to stroke along the arch of his collarbone.

Helmut cups the back of Andre’s head, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head. “And you still don’t know why you’re attractive to me?” he asks but it’s barely a question anymore.

Andre mulls it over in his mind. “Why didn’t you say something then?” he asks, genuinely curious.

Helmut laughs softly. “For the same reasons I shouldn’t have said anything now: it’s not professional. And I wouldn’t want to give you up for anything in the world.” He rolls onto his back, putting some distance between them. Andre shivers, pulling the blanket higher around himself. “That’s why we’re going to treat this as a lapse in composure on my part,” he decides, his voice turning firm.

“You can’t be serious,” Andre says, frowning.

“It’s the best we can do.” Helmut is looking up at the dark ceiling, folding his hands where they’re resting on top of the blanket. “It’s been an emotional couple of days, not just for you. It’s okay to have said these things, it just shows how close we are.”

“That’s what you take from this?” Andre asks incredulously. He feels like he’s stepped back under the cold shower from the night before, but in contrast to then, his mind feels clear now. “No.”

“Andre- “

“Don’t _Andre_ me,” he says, trying to keep his voice from rising, to sort his thoughts that are starting to speed away from him as he feels the familiar ache of rejection at the edge of his consciousness. He gnaws at his lower lip, pushing himself onto his elbows. “Do I not get a say in this?”

“No, you don’t,” Helmut tells him, but he doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “It’s been almost ten years- “

“Your lips just said something else,” Andre interrupts him, his own lips still tingling from their kiss, from the tangible longing that had overwhelmed him. He can feel the sting of tears at the back of his eyes, and wonders if there’s going to be a day he won’t cry in the desperate way children do, swallows the bitter taste at the back of his tongue. Helmut doesn’t meet his eyes, gaze fixed on the opposite wall, starting to shove the blanket aside to get up, but Andre is quicker, reaching for his arm and holding on, pulling him back into the pillows. “Don’t deny me, please.” He doesn’t want to beg, but the idea of being left alone is making him shiver with cold. “Please,” he repeats, his voice firm, and he can feel Helmut give in through the tension easing under Andre’s grasp more than he can see it otherwise. He scoots closer, resting his cheek against Helmut’s chest so he can hear his heartbeat, the vaguest of flutters, and when Helmut puts his arms around him, pulling him tight against himself, it feels like coming home.

They lay like that for a long time, almost dozing off again, wallowing in the closeness of their entwined limbs. It’s Andre that eventually lifts his head, nuzzling his face along Helmut’s jaw until the other gives in and leans down to kiss him, unhurried and slow, exploring each other’s lips and mouths, almost like trying to complete a puzzle that’s been almost finished for years now.

 

 

 

“I don’t understand why we haven’t done this ten years ago,” Andre says cheekily, later, when they’re moving around the kitchen after they’ve returned from their morning walk with Max. Andre has exchanged his snow-caked jeans for a pair of lose sweatpants, can’t help himself from crossing the kitchen to where Helmut is standing at the stove making omelettes. He wraps his arms around Helmut’s waist, nuzzling the back of his neck. The domesticity has been there for a long time between them, but being allowed to touch, to indulge in the closeness he’s been longing for is an exhilarating feeling that makes him giddy in a childlike way. He hooks his chin over Helmut’s shoulder, watching him prod at the eggs and vegetables mixed in the pan.

“Idiot,” Helmut says mildly, his mind preoccupied.

Andre bites at his neck playfully before he lets go, stepping away to take plates and cutlery from the cabinets and set the table, taking a sip of his coffee when he sits down. He watches Helmut divide the omelette, pushing it onto their plates with a wooden spoon. “Any plans for New Year’s yet?”

Helmut looks up as he returns the now empty pan to the stove. He frowns, lifting a hand to indicate the kitchen around him. “More of this?”

Shaking his head, Andre spears a bit of his food onto his fork, chewing it contemplatively. “Do you want to come to Monaco with me?” he asks, remembering the message James had sent him earlier today, outlining the plans he and the Monaco crowd had finally settled on. “James invited me. Us.”

Helmut’s eyebrow quirks. “Us?”

“Well, not us explicitly, but you know I can always bring whoever I like,” Andre explains, smiling.

“As your date or what?”

“Yes, of course.” He doesn’t understand why Helmut asks for clarifications.

Helmut sighs and pushes the plate with his food, barely touched, away from him as he leans back in the chair. “So, you think that’s what this is going to be? Dating? Is that what you want?” he asks. His voice is quiet, curious rather than accusing, but Andre still doesn’t know what to make of it.

“You don’t?”

“I don’t know,” Helmut admits. “Honestly, until 24 hours ago, this wasn’t even an option.”

Andre reaches out, leaning across the rustic wooden table to touch his fingers against the back of Helmut’s hand where he’s holding onto his coffee mug. “It’s going to be fine. You know James, you probably know most of the rest of the group, I’ll ask him who he invited.”

“No, it’s going to be fucking weird,” Helmut says. “Jesus, Andre, I’m twenty years older than you guys, I’m your _trainer_ , and now I’m what… your boyfriend?”

As if scalded, Andre sits back, swallowing heavily. “Don’t worry. James has Tess now, and they haven’t really given their thing a name yet.”

“Yeah, but I’m not some arm candy like James has on every continent,” Helmut says and pushes his chair back to get to his feet. “It would be weird.”

“If you don’t want us to go, that’s okay. I’ll stay here with you,” Andre says, trying to get control of the conversation again, feeling the pristine good mood from the morning slip through his fingers like silk.

Helmut shakes his head. “You should go, party with them. It’s what you want.”

“Don’t tell me what I want,” Andre argues back, the hairs at the back of his neck rising. He doesn’t even understand why they’re suddenly arguing, but he can see that Helmut is closing himself off, his body language going defensive and shuttered. “Tell me what _you_ want.”

“I want you to go have fun on New Year’s Eve,” Helmut says, picking up his plate of by now mostly cold food and his half-empty coffee mug and walks out of the kitchen.

Andre can hear his bare feet on the wooden stairs, then a door closing upstairs. He props his elbows up on the edge of the table, buries his face in his hands and only barely stifles a frustrated shout, forcing himself to take slow, steady breaths. A soft nudge against his leg demands his attention, and he looks down to find Max has rested his head on Andre’s thigh, looking up at him in question. Andre reaches down, his fingers scratching Max without thought. “Why is he being complicated?” he asks the dog, but Max only quirks his head in confusion, closing his eyes when Andre keeps scratching him.

 

 

 

After he’s eaten and tidied the kitchen, Andre decides enough time has passed for Helmut to stew. He brews another round of coffee, carrying both mugs up the stairs in one hand, rapping the knuckles of the other against the closed door to Helmut’s office, opening a moment later when he hears Helmut’s voice call out through the door.

“Peace offering,” he says as he steps inside, walking over to the big desk and setting the fresh coffee down on the coaster when Helmut lifts the empty one out of the way, setting it on his empty plate and pushing both to the edge of the desk.

“Thank you.” He sits back, the chair swivelling slightly as he turns to face Andre who has leaned against the side of the desk, tipping it back to look up at him. “And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have allowed it to escalate like that.”

Andre sighs, a little tension leaving his body. “I don’t want to argue with you.”

Helmut nods, but his face is still carefully blank, and something about it unsettles Andre. “Neither do I. At least we’ve argued about it now, that means we can put it past us. It just shows that I shouldn’t have put all this tension on you, on top of how worked up you already are. I’m sorry. It’s good that you can go to Monaco, have fun with James and the others, let them set your head straight. I feel like I only made everything worse. I shouldn’t have made you come over when I’m not in the right headspace to give you the stability you need.”

Like so often over the past couple days, Andre feels like the floor is dropping away from him. He reflexively grasps the edge of the desk he’s leaning on with his free hand, feeling the sturdy wood dig into his palm. “What are you saying?”

“Go home, Andre,” he says, and Andre feels his stomach lurch unpleasantly. “I don’t know what possessed me to even think about us in any other way than the one we’re so good at. I’m not willing to risk our friendship. You’re like my family.”

“You don’t send family away,” Andre says, feeling his throat clog up, with anger or frustration or rejection he doesn’t know. He can see the stab of guilt in the way Helmut’s jaw clenches, the way the muscles around his eyes contract, but he doesn’t lower his gaze, keeps meeting Andre’s eyes head on.

“Don’t make this worse than it already is,” he says quietly, all too put together for the chaos of – anger, Andre decides, the easiest of the storm of emotions going through him – emotions that Andre feels inside, putting the ball back in Andre’s field. It’s a neat trick, but a cruel one. Andre bares his teeth for a moment, unable to help himself.

“Fine, have it your way,” he says and pushes away from the desk, leaving his still full mug with Helmut’s plate. He stops at the door, twisting his head to look over his shoulder. “Don’t even think about calling until you fall off that fucking high horse of yours.”


	5. Chapter 5

James opens the door with a smile, drawing Andre into a hug. “You, sir, need a drink.”

Andre grimaces, toeing off his sneakers as he follows James into the flat. He reaches up, rubbing his palm along his jaw, that freshly shaven feel always startling when he has gone a couple days without. “Do I look that bad?” he asks but doesn’t protest when James pushes a tumbler of something clear and probably very alcoholic into his hand as soon as he’s dropped his overnight bag by the door to the guest room and followed him through the living room to the open kitchen.

“You look like you haven’t slept all night,” James says matter-of-factly, “and I’m the one with the jetlag, not you. So.”

Andre just grimaces again and takes a sip of the drink. It burns on his tongue, so not one of the more expensive bottles James owns. This is designed to be consumed, not enjoyed, already setting the mood for the night: the kind of alcohol Andre wouldn’t consider too nice to be throwing back up later. He takes another sip.

“Where is Tess?” Andre asks, trying to change the subject.

“At her flat, probably napping and then getting ready. We’ll pick her up on the way to the restaurant later,” James explains, taking a healthy swig of his own drink.

They talk for a while, idle chitchat that puts Andre’s mind at ease as he lets the gentle heat of the alcohol settle in his stomach. He knows he should eat something before drinking more, but doesn’t feel hungry, picking at the bowl of peanuts James sets on the table at some point.

“So, how drunk do I have to get you for you to spill the beans about where you dropped off the grid to over the past couple days?” James asks eventually, leaning forwards across the counter.

“Very,” Andre just answers, trying for a glare when James makes a disappointed little noise and rounds the kitchen island, insinuating himself into Andre’s personal space with an ease that speaks of years of familiarity. It rubs at Andre’s frayed nerves and he pushes at James’ shoulder until the other gives him space, taking a couple steps back with a raised eyebrow before he turns around with a huff, heading towards his bedroom.

“Right,” he announces from down the hallway. “I got us fake moustaches!”

 

 

 

The restaurant is noisy, walking that fine line between cosy and crowded in a way that makes Andre comfortable to just lean back and enjoy the atmosphere, switching in and out of the conversations going on around him. He moves up and down the table as people start exchanging seats to talk with others after dinner has been eaten, others going to the small space by the bar that is used as a dance floor. He leans back against the white painted brick wall, observing from the save distance behind his sun glasses, sipping languidly from his wine glass. He is pleasantly buzzed, just enough to soften the edges of his jagged emotions, but with the threat of melancholy induced hangover the next day if he doesn’t keep drinking. As if to show his intent, he lifts his glass to his mouth, draining the last gulp. He gives Tess an appreciative little smirk when she tops his glass off as she’s refilling her own.

Still, he can’t help reaching into his pocket from time to time, glancing at the screen of his phone. As Andre had told him to, Helmut hasn’t tried to call or message him since Andre left the day before, only the expected New Year’s wishes from his friends in Asia filling his phone, Tokyo already past the invisible border into 2019. It makes him ache, thinking about everyone he left behind there, his second family. Like so many times over the last months he can’t keep his thoughts from wondering whether he made the right decision, whether giving up what he found there for whatever he thought he might find in Europe would be worth it in the end.

He can’t help watching James and Tess, the open affection between them, and wonders if this time, with this girl, James will feel the same pull to come back home. He wonders what place James would consider home, if he had to pinpoint it on a map, whether he’d take as long as Andre had the last time someone had asked him to.

James finds him later, when the group has mingled with the rest of the crowd in the restaurant, after the fireworks and the champagne. Andre is sitting at the end of the bar when James pulls up the stool beside him, the half empty tequila bottle with which he has made the round in the restaurant in his hand. He motions for another glass for Andre, still sober enough not to slosh too much alcohol onto the bar surface as he fills them generously.

“Alright, mate, drunk enough to tell me where you fucked off to?” James asks, the clink of their glasses drowned out by the music and the noisy crowd around them. James has to shout over the noise, but it’s giving them privacy almost more than leaving the room would.

Andre swallows the shot, the alcohol burning his throat pleasantly, adding to the buzz in his head and softening the edges of his vision further. James tops off his glass, leaning over to drape his arm around Andre’s shoulders, a comfortable warm weight against his side. “Helmut,” he says, answering James’ question.

James snickers. “I thought that was just before Christmas,” he says, ridiculously focused despite how clearly drunk he already is, a skill Andre sometimes envies him for. His own thoughts feel sluggish.

“Helmut loves me,” Andre says, can’t keep the words in. They feel strange coming over his own lips and Andre licks them, taking another, more paced sip of his tequila.

“Yeah, he does, mate. We all love you. I love you,” James enthuses, spilling drops of tequila over Andre’s sleeve as he gestures wildly. He leans in, presses his forehead against Andre’s temple, then nips at the edge of his jaw, almost a kiss.

“I love you too, muppet,” Andre says because it’s true. There must be something about his tone though that catches James’ suspicion, making him lean back and examine Andre’s face closely. Andre keeps facing the bar, refusing to glance at James, to let his face betray his emotions. James knows him too well though.

“Helmut, huh,” James says after a moment of contemplation in which he lifts the tequila bottle to his lips, forgetting about the full glass he still has in the other hand as he takes a swig. “That’s weird though. He’s like, old enough to date your mum, bro.”

“Oh fuck off, arsehole.” Andre pushes at James to make him let go, uncoordinated enough from the alcohol not to outright punch him. He can feel his face reddening, the tips of his ears burning, and curses in French when James doesn’t let go without a bit of a fight that lands more tequila on Andre’s shirt, making it stick uncomfortably to his arm as he pushes away from the bar to get to his feet. He doesn’t want to leave in a strop, can’t really, not when James has the keys to his apartment, but he needs to get away, now.

It’s Tess that finds him on the balcony a couple minutes later, leaning against the railing that Andre is resting his arms on. He’s gotten rid of the stupid wig and moustache by now, can feel the residue of the glue itch on his upper lip. Andre puts the phone he had been playing with back into the pocket of his jeans, turns his head to look at her, but Tess is facing the restaurant. She is leaning her back against the railing, watching the crowd inside.

“You look like you’re done partying,” she says, but her voice is soft, not accusing, more an observation. Andre shies away from it, picking with his nails at the artfully chipped varnish on the railing. He startles when Tess takes his hand, the cold press of metal against his palm.

Andre looks at the two keys attached to a key ring and a small key chain with a metal rendering of the race track the city turns into once a year; a keychain Andre recognises, James habit of sorting the keys to his various homes by the race tracks closest to them. The keys look new though, freshly made, a statement of intent leaving them in Tess’ possession. “Thank you,” he tells her, watching the lazy smile curl around her pretty lips.

“The barman can get you a taxi,” she suggests. “I’ll make sure James gets home safely later.”

“I could use a walk,” Andre tells her instead, watching her nod. The taxi ride earlier hadn’t taken them long, there is never a big distance to cover in a city as small and crowded as Monaco, wedged between the sea and the mountains rising steeply behind it. He wants to clear his head. “Tell the others I said goodbye?”

 

 

 

The streets of Monaco are alight with people milling about, walking from one restaurant to another, the bars open, tables outside spilling party folk onto the pavement, a variety of music genres mixing in the streets. Andre has his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, grateful for the mild winter as he walks between the puddles of sick and half destroyed fireworks littering the pavement. By morning, the cleaning crews will already have swarmed the streets, wiping away what happened during the small hours of night to leave just the gleaming façade of the city behind, that untouchable glam that made it so prominent.

Andre walks along the harbour, watching the parties on the yachts, the same atmosphere as after the Formula 1 cars have raced through the city. The base coming from one of the boats is almost deafening, making his diaphragm throb as he passes it. There are people on the decks, and Andre catches the gaze of one of the men looking out onto the city, the quirk of his mouth returning the smile automatically, a trained response. He’s good looking, meticulously styled in the way that screams that money is not an issue, not too obviously drunk, a beckoning in the arch of his eyebrow as he looks up and down Andre’s body, calculating.

It would be easy, and Andre lets his imagination go there for a moment, sees himself walking onto that yacht. He could be anonymous here, like he had so easily been in Tokyo, he wouldn’t have to give a name, could probably take whatever he wants if he did it right. Easy pleasure and no consequences.

It holds absolutely no appeal to Andre.

He smiles again before he turns away, following the streets further as he digs the phone out of his pocket.

thought about kissing u at midnight03:42

He sends the text before he can change his mind, then switches off his phone entirely. He doesn’t want to wait for a reply that might not come, he decides, pushing the phone back into his pocket as he walks the last couple corners to James’ flat.

 

 

 

It’s entirely unfair how awake James is the next morning. Sure, Andre knows at least eighty percent of that is due to the jetlag that’s still got his body on a different schedule than the continent they’re currently in. Andre feels like death warmed over even though he returned to the flat much earlier than James and Tess, their return having woken him from deep sleep to listen as they’d stumbled down the hallway, James’ laughter carrying through the thin walls. Andre hadn’t been able to go back to sleep afterwards, only dozing with his eyes closed, waiting for the time to pass until it turned into an acceptable hour to get up, get going.

The sound of James’ way too expensive coffee grinder lures Andre out of bed and under a cold shower to wake himself up properly. James greets him in the kitchen, looking up from the screen of his smart phone as he’s leaning against the counter, sipping from his coffee. He’s in just his pyjama pants, unselfconscious about the love bites and scratches across his shoulders and back, but doesn’t protest when Andre steals his half-empty coffee mug, the contents cooled just enough to drink them down in one long gulp.

“Ready for some fresh air?” James asks and Andre nods, grabbing for a slice of toast from James’ plate, plain, just what his stomach could use, churning slightly with the acidic feel of too much alcohol the night before.

James tosses the keys to his car at Andre unasked as they walk through the garage fifteen minutes later. Andre exhales as soon as he feels the familiar purr of the sports engine beneath the hood coming to live, the sound echoing from the concrete walls and ceilings. He relaxes as the superb steering reacts to the smallest of touches as he steers the car out of the underground parking and through the streets that are still suspiciously empty, the usual early morning traffic thinned out. They haven’t really discussed a destination or a time frame, but James had told him to grab his camera, both their equipment stored in the boot of the car. Andre takes them out of the city, following the ocean road for a short while before he steers the car up one of the twisty mountain roads that’s testing his skills in a manner enough to satisfy him and bind his attention. James’ relaxed posture in the passenger seat is giving him space to test the engine as they speed up into the mountains. The quick response of the car speaks to Andre in a way nothing else in his life can, settling his strained nerves, control seeping through his system like a steadying balm.

“So, help me connect some dots from last night,” James says eventually, twisting his body in the embrace of the seat to face Andre, to give him his undivided attention. Andre just hums in acknowledgement, prompting James to go on with whatever he has to say. “I kind of remember some declarations of love happening. Which I still stand by, bro,” he continues, his tone a gentle tease. “Don’t break my heart by telling me it was just the alcohol talking.”

Andre smiles despite himself, understanding James’ roundabout way of asking for the opening it is, for him to reply to with whatever he wants: he knows a denial now will make James leave it alone, will make him change the topic, and it’s tempting too. But Andre has been alone with his thoughts for too long, and James has always been a good sounding board for him, making him air his feelings and giving input in as objective a way as he could; he even argued the benefits of going back to Europe when doubt had made Andre falter, almost calling everything off, staying in Japan; James had reminded him of all the things he was missing, even though James knew that Andre’s decision to leave Japan would mean one friend – brother, Andre reminds himself – far away for most of the year.

“I’d never break your heart,” Andre says, mirroring James’ teasing tone, catching his grin from the corner of his eyes.

James chuckles lightly, drumming his fingers against his knee as he looks back out of the window, letting the silence stretch between them. “Helmut, huh.” Andre doesn’t say anything, but he forces his grip on the steering wheel to relax from the instinctive tension that had gone through him. “I must admit, I did _not_ see that one coming,” James says when Andre stays silent. “And I do know your type.”

Andre snorts, turning his head to the side so James can see his raised eyebrow before he returns his attention to the road. “My type?”

“Yeah. A little older, a little controlling, a little bit of an arsehole sometimes,” James reels off, counting on his fingers.

“And how do you fit in there?” Andre challenges, genuinely curious for a moment. They usually don’t discuss relationships, especially not their own.

“Oh, I definitely fall in the bit of an arse category,” James admits freely, laughing at himself. “But I’m not your type. I mean, we aren’t dating. This,” he gestures between them broadly, “is just masturbation without using my own hands. Well, sometimes using my own hands,” he says, his voice contemplative, the hint of a leer playing around his mouth.

“Wow,” Andre says after a long moment of disbelieving quiet. “Tell me more about the fucked-up ways your brain works,” he says sarcastically. “Or rather, just don’t. I don’t think I want to know.”

James snickers loudly at Andre’s outrage, and Andre can’t help his own lips quirking into a smile, the effect James and his endearingly stupid simplicity has on him, knowing that underlying all the bullshit he says is genuine affection. It’s a character trait that some people find hard to deal with, but Andre appreciates, like an insistent nagging ray of sunlight when he’s lost himself in too dark clouds of angst from time to time.

“Helmut though,” James says after a couple moments of contemplation. “Isn’t it a bit weird though? I mean, he’s basically like your… I mean not like a brother, but like, an uncle or something.” _He could be your dad_ , James doesn’t say, but Andre hears it clearly in the awkwardness that’s crept into his voice.

“Does it matter?” Andre asks after he’s steered the car around the next twisty turn in the road, using the excuse not to answer immediately. “Is that really a problem these days?”

“I don’t know, man, you tell me,” James admits.

Andre hums non-committal, his mind jumping to the reluctance Helmut had displayed when asked to come along to the party the night before. He tells James that.

“Well, I can’t say he’s wrong,” James says, siding with Helmut, and somehow that doesn’t seem fair at all. Andre huffs. “Everyone knows he’s your trainer, has been forever, and now he’s what even? You’re both a bit old to call each other ‘boyfriend’.” James actually lifts his hands to make quotation marks in the air. “It is weird.” Silence stretches between them again, James’ eyes fixed somewhere outside. They’ve crawled up high over sea level by now, the ocean reflecting the grey skies above dully. “Are you going to tell your mum?”

Andre swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. He hasn’t even thought that far yet, not when it doesn’t even seem certain where he’s heading. He would want to tell her, he doesn’t keep secrets from her, well, not about anything important in his life; he’d love to present her someone by his side, if only to satisfy the guarded curiosity she had shown over the past months with his return to Europe, his plans to settle down here an indication to her that he might have found someone already, or was deliberately pursuing someone, the hope in her gaze. She just wants him to be happy, he knows, she loves him, but there’s an expectation beneath it, a pressure that he isn’t sure how to deal with.

“No,” Andre says, almost reflexively. “Well, not now. I don’t even know if there will be anything to tell.” He tries to imagine it and draws a blank.

James watches him for a long moment, before drawing a deep breath, his fingers flexing against his jeans-clad thighs. “You know I just want you to be happy, right? But you’re not making it easy on yourself, again.” James lifts his hand to the inside of door, his fingernails scratching over the soft plastic where the door turns into window distractedly. “Tell me how you want me to react.”

Andre frowns, slowing the car down a bit, his reflexes less sharp with how he’s dividing his attention between James and the road they’re still travelling up. “What do you mean?”

“Well, what do you want from me, mate?” James asks bluntly. “Approval? Support? Or do you want me to talk you out of it?”

“Do _you_ want to talk me out of it?” Andre asks back, not sure what he wants himself.

James sighs again. “Usually I got an idea what would make you happier in the long run,” he says honestly, “but I don’t know. I don’t want to encourage you to pursue one thing only for it to ruin something I know you can’t live without. But I don’t want to talk you out of it if you think this could be your best shot at what you want. So, tell me if you want me to tell you to go for it, or if you want me to set you up on a blind date with one of Tess’ gay friends to distract you.”

The road levels out as they reach a plateau clinging to the side of the mountain, signs indicating a viewing point with parking area up ahead. Andre steers the car onto the gravel, parking it among the handful of other cars, shutting down the engine. He keeps his hands on the steering wheel, the seatbelt buckled and just closes his eyes for a long moment, listening to the engine tick and James’ steady breathing beside him. He doesn’t react when he hears the click of James’ seatbelt unbuckling, the sigh as he leans across the centre of the car to put his head against Andre’s shoulder. His hand follows Andre’s arm down to his hand, and Andre lets go of the steering wheel, linking his fingers through James’ as he draws them down into his lap. He doesn’t know what he wants, he doesn’t know what he feels, but the simple gesture reminds him of Helmut’s steady hands on him, the familiarity of them more alluring than the interested eyes of the faceless stranger from the night before, the faceless possibilities of a blind date.

“Just don’t tell me _I told you so_ when I fuck it up,” Andre says eventually, feeling James’ hand tighten against his reassuringly.

 

 

 

thought abot kissin u @ midnite 03:42

you look way too awake for the amount of sleep you got 11:07

I take that as a compliment 11:23

Andre looks at his phone, at the text he got from Helmut only moments after James uploaded the short video of them from the viewing point. He can’t guess anything from the wording, not Helmut’s mood or thoughts, no acknowledgement of what he texted on his way back to James’ place, the words glaring at him from the top of the screen. He could take them back, could delete the text, both from his own screen and the message history in Helmut’s phone as well, but he doesn’t want to. They’re the truth, and if there’s one thing he won’t apologize it’s for how he’s feeling.

James says hi 11:25

James hasn’t explicitly, but it feels a petty enough thing to write, could just as well be true. It implies that they’ve talked about him. Andre puts the phone back into his pocket, trying to clear his mind as he takes a deep breath of the crisp air, feeling the soft breeze ruffle his hair and tug at his coat as he’s watching James fool around with his camera.

James demands the car keys back before they set off again, making clear that what leeway he’d given Andre in the morning was over. Tess is waiting for them in a restaurant down by the harbour, brunch spread over the table where she’s sitting, looking out onto the water. Traces of her flawless make-up from the night before are still clinging to the corners of her eyes not having bothered to reapply it, her hair tied up in a messy bun. Her gaze is slumberous, her small frame drowning in a soft, oversized hoodie, one Andre recognises as belonging to James. She’s gorgeous, and Andre envies James for a heartbeat, the ease with which he leans down to kiss her on the lips, how he settles close next to her on the bench seat. He could get used to her, Andre thinks, if she’s the one James will settle down with. Right now he can’t tell.

The table is set for four, and he can’t help his thoughts drifting as he folds his coat into the empty seat next to himself. Would it be the same if Helmut had agreed to come along? Would he be comfortable with a similar display of affection in public, in a place as secure and anonymous as the high-priced restaurant they’re currently sitting in? Would he himself even want it? It irks him that he is at a loss, no experience with a relationship that would warrant this kind of affection, doesn’t really know what that says about himself. He busies himself with his coat, searching through the pockets for his phone to cover the shaking of his hands.

Happy New Years to him 11:30

Is he coming to MRK too? 11:31

Andre looks at the texts, then repeats the greetings and question to James, not sure himself what James’ schedule as test driver is for the upcoming race.

yes, for the race and the test later 13:07

are you? 13:07

If the snow will let me 13:07

The text is followed by a picture Andre recognises taken from Helmut’s office, not the one in his house but the one in the upper levels of the hotel he uses when receiving clients. The parking lot outside is covered in meters of snow, the cars only vague bumps underneath the endless white. A snowplough has cleared a track along the road, pushing the snow in high piles on either side, but the tarmac is already covered in another inch by the thick flakes drifting lazily from the sky in front of the window.

If you want me to 13:09

The text pops up almost as an afterthought while Andre is still looking at the picture. He doesn’t even think before answering.

of course I do 13:10

tell me if u need a helicopter 13:10

 

 

 

Andre drives back to Gordes in the afternoon, picking up Max from the neighbours that took a liking to him enough to watch the dog from time to time. They go for a long walk in the evening, picking up dinner on the way; Andre doesn’t feel like buying groceries that’ll only spoil since he’s heading to Paris for the Marrakesh briefing the next days, then almost straight to Morocco from there. He sits on the back porch late in the evening, watching Max run off to retrieve the ball he’s throwing before returning it – most of the times – sad that the time with his dog will be over so soon. The unconditional love the animal shows him no matter how rarely they see each other warms his heart. He wonders if having someone to come home to at the end of race weekends would feel the same.

Max seems to feel Andre’s mood, following him closely throughout the evening, barely leaving his side, even following him into the bathroom. When Andre finally goes to bed, way after midnight and much later than is reasonable with the hours of driving he has planned for the next day, Max jumps onto the bed with him, curling close, and Andre doesn’t have the heart to push him off the mattress. He digs his fingers into Max’s fur and falls asleep to Max lazily licking at his arm.

Andre is tired by the time he arrives in Nivelles the next day. It’s evening, his start to the drive delayed by the need to sleep a little longer when the early alarm he sat hadn’t managed to wake him, the traffic on the road hindering him further. His mother awaits him with a hug and kisses to his cheeks and a lovely home-cooked meal that makes Andre help himself to seconds and thirds, really feeling hungry for the first time in days. The gushing tales about her time on the cruise over the holidays having Andre grinning like a fool, knowing he did well in gifting her that, happy to sit back and listen, making the right noises and asking questions from time to time to keep her going. He sleeps like a stone and doesn’t set an alarm for the next day, the drive to Paris much shorter and only planning to arrive there in the later afternoon.

 

 

 

He tries not to openly flinch when Jean-Eric opens the door. The light is on in the hallway behind him, throwing his face in shadow, highlighting the new shortness of his hair. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Andre replies and takes a step closer into Jean-Eric’s personal space and the hug he gets drawn into. “Happy New Year. Thanks for having me.”

“Always,” Jean-Eric says, not letting go for a long moment, and Andre can’t help himself, lifting the hand he’d put around Jev’s shoulder to cup the back of his head, stroke his palm over the short hairs. They’re soft, not quite stubble, and Jev makes a quiet noise, leaning his head against Andre’s shoulder. “Do you like it?”

Andre draws back, holding Jean-Eric at arm’s length to look at him, really look at him for the first time in what feels like ages, dropping his overnight bag onto the floor to lift his fingers to Jev’s jaw, pushing his face up to meet his eyes. “It’s different,” he says after a long moment, the need for approval so strong in Jean-Eric’s eyes. “I… I like it. But it’ll take some getting used to,” he admits.

Jean-Eric nods, taking a step back into the flat, holding the door open for Andre to finally enter.

Andre looks around, curious to hear only the soft sound of a TV running in the living room. “Lorene not in?”

“She’s on a job in London,” Jean-Eric answers easily, walking deeper into the flat. “Get settled in, I’ll make coffee.”

Andre knows the layout of the flat, has been here for a couple times over the past years. The last time had been in late summer, before Lorene, back when Jean-Eric had purged the flat of all evidence of his last relationship. It’s different now, the signs of more than one person inhabiting it obvious, the female touches all over the place, the signs of a kid.

Andre slips out of his shoes in the hallway, placing them neatly against the wall next to a messy heap of tiny shoes, hangs his coat among the fancy fabrics of Lorene and Jev’s. He walks down the hall to the door that leads to the guest bedroom, the one he’s already slept in a couple times, and pushes it open. Inside, the bed is freshly made, clean, neutral sheets, but it’s been pushed up against a wall, leaving the centre of the room free. A round carpet is covering the wooden floorboards there, a new chest of drawers up against one wall, toys and plushies set on top. A smaller wardrobe is standing against one of the walls, and Andre opens it to find it full of children’s clothes.

He feels entirely out of place as he puts his overnight bag down on the foot of the bed, sits down next to it for a moment. He leans forwards resting his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his hands. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Sure, the briefing tomorrow, the simulator work, last discussions about their strategy for the upcoming race, but he should have gotten himself a hotel room. He should have met Jev for dinner and a chat and then at the factory tomorrow. This isn’t good, this isn’t the headspace he needs. The first race was a success, yes, not quite as good as he’d hoped for, but that only means he needs to build on it now, to get in the right space of mind to make sure this season will unfold for him.

By the time Andre enters the kitchen, Jev has finished making coffee, the aromatic scent filling the room and relaxing Andre. Jev is leaned against the kitchen counter, looking up at Andre from where he’s playing with the spotted kitten that’s lying on the counter top, batting at Jev’s fingers with her paws.

“So that’s Cheetah,” Andre says, grateful for the distraction as he focusses his attention on the lively kitten. It’s easy to steer the conversation from what is becoming their team mascot to the team itself and the racing they’re preparing for, something that feels like safe ground as they drink their coffees and then start preparing dinner, eating standing up around the kitchen island.

They settle on the couch later. The TV is still switched on, muted to a bare whisper showing some sports channel, winter sports events, something on skis. It reminds Andre of Helmut, of the cold of snow on his jeans during their walks and melting away beneath his naked toes after the sauna. He looks away, digs his phone out of his pocket, but there are no new messages, the ones they’d exchanged over the past two days only concerning travel plans and workout suggestions, no emotions betrayed beneath the professional wording. Andre wonders, if he’d showed the messages to Jev, would he pick up anything from them at all? He doubts it. He’s longing for a drink, but their glasses are filled with water, no discussion necessary seeing as they’ll need their wits about them in the simulator tomorrow.

The return of the cat startles him. He lowers his phone onto the couch cushions as the curious kitten climbs up over his stomach onto his chest, making an adorable little noise as she demands his attention. Her claws catch in the cotton of his sweater as she kneads at his chest, sniffing along his collar and his jaw. He reaches up to scratch her ears, smiling when she butts his fingers away to be left alone in her exploration. It’s a different affection than he’s used to from Max, all careful curiosity where Max is a clumsy bundle of joy, her slight weight barely detectable through the layers of his thick sweater. Andre is mesmerized, watching her with bated breath, so absorbed that he doesn’t even notice Jean-Eric lifting his phone to take a picture. The sound of the camera draws his attention, and Andre glances at him, careful not to move and startle Cheetah away. Jean-Eric meets his eyes with an indulgent smile before lowering them, typing something on his smart phone.

Jev looks up again, then moves along the couch until he’s next to Andre. He turns around until he’s leaning against Andre’s shoulder like they’ve done in so many interviews by now, his long legs stretched out along the couch at an angle to Andre’s body. He’s a warm weight against Andre’s side, jostling him slightly, making Cheetah take a step back, then go exploring towards Jev. Jean-Eric holds up the phone for Andre to see the screen. He turns his head, feeling Jean-Eric’s soft hair against his cheek. On the screen he can see himself and the cat, the words Jean-Eric had captioned it with over his name: _so much love_.

His heart constricts. He closes his eyes, leans his cheek against the top of Jean-Eric’s head, breathes in his scent, allows himself to feel every point where Jev’s body is leaned heavily into his, where the warmth of his skin is tangible through the layers of both their clothes. He entertains the thought, just for a heartbeat: if he hadn’t pulled back, if he’d given in when Jev had come to seek him out after he’d ended it with Kriss, would this be his reality now? Would it be his spare clothes in the wardrobes in Jean-Eric’s flat, his car models on the shelves, their cat?

“You don’t mean this,” he says, and fuck, his voice is trembling. He opens his eyes when he feels Jean-Eric shift, moving so that he can look up at him. There’s that need for approval in his eyes again, tension and insecurity written all over his face.

“I don’t-“ Jean-Eric starts, stops himself to bite at his lip. He surges forwards suddenly, their lips clashing against each other’s painfully.  Andre allows it for a second, before he turns his face away, feeling Jean-Eric slip back down against the couch next to him. He curses quietly. Andre lets him, licks his lips, trying to taste longing there, desire, but there is none, just heavy melancholia.

“This is what you want,” Andre says, lifting his hand to gesture at the room at large: at the evidence of a blossoming family, at the way Jean-Eric falls hard and fast, the few weeks it took to completely immerse himself in Lorene’s life, almost symbiotic. The way he’s always been all or nothing about every relationship or attempt of one in his life. “It isn’t something I can give you, even if I wanted to.” He knows the words are true as he says them; no, his life’s dream has never been about school runs and baby showers, the concept of a family of his own – as much as he loves his parents and extended family – not one he ever felt like pursuing, the idea of being tied down to one place, one person, having its charms, though the commitment behind it something he only recently started to feel like something that could fulfil him. His return to Europe was a start in that direction, though he isn’t sure yet whether Gordes will be it in the long run, or if life will drag him somewhere else; as much as he longs to anchor himself, the kind of tied down that Jean-Eric is after so few weeks makes his commitment phobia rear its ugly head.

“And what is it _you_ want?” Jean-Eric asks, his voice defensive.

Someone by his side, Andre thinks. Someone he can see eye to eye with. Someone who shares his love for racing and sports and seeing the world, indulging in food and music. Someone who doesn’t mind when he goes on a tangent about owning a camera for black and white photos if any good computer program could do the same trick, just because he has the money to spend and _wants_ to. Someone to have sex with on a regular enough basis that he can learn what they like. Someone to come home to when he’s buzzing with joy after a successful race, or when he’s tired and sad and just needs someone to lean on for a while, to take control and make him feel better.

The sudden clarity that flows through him makes him almost lightheaded. He can feel the tense muscles in his jaw relax, slouching a little lower onto the couch. “Helmut,” he says, almost startled by his own voice.

“Wait, what?”

It spools out of Andre once he starts talking. He tells Jev of the past days – not everything, not about the darkest corners of his mind, though he knows that Jev must be aware of them – waiting for him to interrupt, but Jean-Eric just listens quietly, taking everything in. It’s freeing to vent, to someone who doesn’t know Helmut as well as James does, hell, who doesn’t know Andre as well as James does. He runs out of steam by the time he recounts Helmut’s argument against going with him to Monaco, tells him about James’ reaction as well. When he is done, he leans forwards to grab his glass from the couch table, drains it in long swallows, his throat dry. He wants to get up, pick up a bottle from the fridge for a refill.

Jean-Eric’s hand at his elbow stops him before he can stand. “Are you in love with him?”

Does it matter, Andre thinks, the flippant reply at the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. He sighs, deciding to go with honesty instead, the line of thoughts he’d mulled over in the many hours he’d spent on various motorways across Europe during the past days. “No,” he admits after another long pause. He glances at Jean-Eric, sees something flicker across his face that looks deceptively like pity, and shakes his head in response.

“Andre, you shouldn’t-“ Jev starts, but Andre interrupts him with another shake of his head.

“Did I ever tell you how we met?” Andre asks, turning around and drawing his legs onto the couch. When Jev gives a short shake of his head, he continues: “I was just starting out, but I was so full of myself, thinking that kind of confidence, over-confidence really, was what the bosses wanted to see. There were different options for trainers my parents were making me look at.” He remembers it all too brightly: his manager’s office he was sitting in for the questionnaire part of the ‘audition’, the team’s trainings facility he was allowed to use for the trial trainings. Helmut was the third candidate he was training with in as many weeks, and by then he’d been entirely bored, thinking that it wouldn’t make a damn difference who he’d be training with, it wasn’t up to them what his racing career would end up looking like. Helmut had just sat quietly across from him, answered Andre’s blabbering questions with neutral professionalism.

_Any questions?_ Andre had asked after about an hour.

Helmut had shaken his head, gotten to his feet. By the door he had turned around to look back at Andre, his gaze calculating. _Tomorrow, you’re going to show me why I should train you. Right now, all I see is a spoilt brat wasting my time._

“-and over the next days, he put me through hell,” Andre explains. “He was the only one not trying to impress _me_ but trying to see what potential I had. I practically begged him to take me on at the end of the week.”

Jean-Eric smiles indulgently. “He doesn’t let you get away with shit.”

“No, he instinctively knew how to handle me, still does.” Andre chuckles. “I’ve got to tell you, for months I had the biggest crush on him, back then.” _Sometimes I barely made it out of the showers and back to my room before I put my hand down my pants._ He doesn’t say the last part, but the smirk that’s curling at the corner of Jean-Eric’s mouth tells him the other knows what he’s thinking.

“Did you tell him you’re gay?” Jev asks, leaning back on the couch. The earlier tension between them has dissipated, now that the topic is so firmly on Andre, Jean-Eric’s own insecurities pushed to the back.

“Yeah. We were constantly pushing at each other, physically and mentally, trying to figure out where our boundaries were. I just spat it at him during one of our arguments,” Andre recalls. “He just treated it as a non-issue. I knew then that I could trust him with anything.”

Jean-Eric hums in agreement.

“So no, I’m not _in love_ with him,” Andre finishes eventually. “Sometimes I feel like we’re already married. He makes me feel safe and cared for and doesn’t judge me. I don’t think I could ask for more. I don’t think I need the butterflies and sweaty hands you get when you think you’re in love with someone you just met, that’s just fear and insecurity because you don’t know them yet.”

“There are parts of him you don’t know though,” Jean-Eric says, reaching out to take a drink from his own water glass. He pulls a face, looking at it sceptically for a moment, the longing for something stronger obviously not just in Andre. “Did _you_ know he was gay?”

Andre shakes his head. “He isn’t, I don’t think so.” At Jean-Eric’s raised eyebrow, he elaborates. “He explained it to me once, when I was teasing him for not picking up someone in the Lemans paddock when they were practically throwing themselves at him. He doesn’t do one-night stands. He wants to get to know someone before he even considers sleeping with them. There’s only been a few women in his life over the years.”

Jean-Eric’s gaze, when he meets Andre’s eyes, is downright dirty, making Andre’s ears heat up and cheeks turn red even before he’s spoken. “So, you don’t think he’s had sex with guys yet? Not even to get you out of his system? Tell me you at least get butterflies thinking about that,” he teases, Andre’s physical reaction apparently answer enough. He reaches out, tugs on Andre’s arm until Andre has laid back down, his head resting on Jean-Eric’s stomach. “I’m sorry I tried to kiss you earlier, that was inappropriate,” he says, his voice calmer, more subdued.

“It’s okay, I get it,” Andre tells him, closing his eyes when he feels Jean-Eric’s fingers comb through his hair. “It’s all a bit much, isn’t it?” he asks, gesturing at the room at large, but he knows Jev will get what he means; his girlfriend, the kid, the commitment. “Maybe you should talk to Sam,” he suggests, a sudden epiphany.

“Yeah, maybe that’s a good idea,” Jean-Eric agrees after a moment of contemplation. “Thank you for being here.”


	6. Chapter 6

did you ever have sex with a guy? 11:54

Andre is lying on a sun lounger in the beautifully made up pool area of the hotel in Marrakesh, whiling away the couple hours downtime in between the sponsor breakfast and the track walk in the afternoon. He is relaxing in the shade of a parasol, watching Jev get severely sunburnt a few loungers down, the sun screen Lorene had rubbed all over him earlier not standing a chance against the blinding sunlight. Their talk from a few days ago is still fresh in his head, especially with how he hasn’t seen Helmut yet, not since before New Year’s. It’s making him restless, knowing that Helmut will arrive in a couple of hours, on a different schedule and a different plane than the one Andre took from Paris after the briefings.

you can’t just ask stuff like that, Jesus 12:03

there’s people around 12:03

Andre snorts in amusement when he reads the reply.

how many of them can read German? 12:05

are you at the airport yet? 12:05

yes, but the plane is delayed. I’ll text you when I find out when I’ll arrive. 12:06

Andre writes back a row of unhappy smileys and airplanes, knowing the hassle of botched up plane schedules all too well. He tosses the phone onto the stack of towels and junk next to his lounger and leans back, adjusting his sunglasses. He’ll have to rethink his plans for dinner if Helmut doesn’t make it in time, not really looking forward to eating alone, having learned of Jev and Lorene’s plans to meet up with Sam and Holly later that night. If he can’t bother anyone from the team into keeping him company, he’ll settle with room service and call it an early night. Before he can change his mind, he twists to reach for his phone again, opening the messenger app.

come find me when you arrive. we should talk. 12:11

In the end, Andre runs into Tatiana on the way back from the pool, and the prospect of a quiet dinner with her, talking about the new specifics of the track and helping her with any unanswered questions she might have before the test sounds like a perfectly good way of spending the evening. They end up at a table in the back of one of the hotel’s restaurants, trying some of the local dishes, Andre’s tongue unused to the kind of spices, but delicious nonetheless. Tatiana is interesting to talk to, her humour shining through in the conversation, her questions about the car intelligent and to the point, making Andre sit back to deliberate his answers more than once. They end up staying longer than anticipated, the restaurant decidedly empty by the time they get up from the table and say their goodnights by the row of lifts.

The bedside lamp is switched on when he opens the door, bathing the room in warm, orange light. For a moment Andre wonders if housekeeping had been in while he was at dinner, but then his eyes move to the flutter of the curtains in front of the balcony door, the draft of the night-cool desert air ruffling the thin fabric, barely obscuring the shape of the person leaning on the balustrades outside. Calming his racing heartbeat, Andre slips out of his shoes as the door clicks shut behind him, crossing the room to the balcony door. Helmut is resting his arms on the balustrades, looking down to the pool area and the desert behind it. He straightens up when he hears Andre push the balcony door open wider to step through, turns around to lean back against it.

“You should have texted me you arrived, we were still down in the restaurant,” Andre says, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Helmut crosses his arms over his chest. “You left me a key card.”

“Don’t I always?” Andre hadn’t even thought about leaving the second key card to his room at the reception desk with the order to hand it to Helmut at check in, something he’d done at every race that his trainer attended as well, giving him the opportunity to come by whenever necessary, to go back and retrieve things that Andre so often forgot especially on the more busy race weekends.

Helmut sighs, rubbing his palm over his face. He looks tired, the long day of travel clearly visible in the strain of his shoulders, along with what looks like not enough sleep forming dark circles below his eyes. Andre refuses to feel guilty about any of it.

“I think I need to apologize,” Helmut says, his voice rough as he lifts his head to meet Andre’s gaze. “I’m sorry. The way I reacted in Seefeld wasn’t… I want to say professional, but that doesn’t really cover it.”

“You were being an arse,” Andre helps, but that Helmut is willing to face what happened between them at all lifts a weight from his heart.

“Yes, I was,” Helmut admits, a spark of amusement curling the corner of his mouth. “I’m really sorry, Andre,” he says, sincerity heavy in his voice. “I don’t want to fuck things up between us, I don’t want to lose you, and I feel like I’m damn well near ruining everything we have.”

Andre leans back against the glass of the balcony door, watching Helmut attentively. “Apology accepted,” he says, trying to clear the air between them. He looks at the floor, follows the edge of a floor tile with his toe for a moment, distracting himself. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to let go of this.” He holds up his hand before Helmut can say something, determined to get out what’s been going on in his head over the past days. “I thought this over, again and again. I had enough time for that. I don’t really want to talk about it right now, not when I need to focus on the race,” he says, watching Helmut nod in agreement as he glances up. “I think we’d be good together, really fucking amazing actually. But I’m not going to be begging for scraps. I need to know whether you’re just going to dismiss me and try to act like nothing has happened, or if you’re willing to give this a chance.” He’s prepared for the rejection, Andre has told himself that over a dozen times over the past days; he’s going to be okay with whatever Helmut has decided for himself, but he can’t help the flicker of hope as Helmut doesn’t dismiss him right away. The slight nod Helmut gives him almost makes his knees go weak.

“After the race,” he says, and his shoulders seem to relax a little bit.

Andre exhales deeply. “Thank you.” He pushes himself away from the balcony door, takes a step forwards, hates how he’s insecure about what he wants to do. Helmut uncrosses his arms as Andre moves towards him, and before long Andre has reached him, has reached out for him and put his arms around Helmut’s waist, grateful when the other returns the hug. Helmut holds him tightly, pressing his lips against Andre’s temple, another apology quietly spoken. Andre buries his face against Helmut’s neck, breathing in his warm, familiar scent. “Do you have any plans for after the race yet?” he asks.

He feels Helmut shrug more than he sees it. “James asked me to stay for his test day, we want to talk about some new training plans for him,” Helmut says. “Then trying to get back to Austria, if the snow will let me. We cancelled all appointments for the next days until the weather clears, we never know when the roads will be open or not, it’s a mess.”

“Come to Gordes with me,” Andre suggest, pulling back to look at Helmut. “It’s no use being holed up in your house with nothing to do.”

It takes a long moment for Helmut to make up his mind. “Yeah, okay, why not. I’ll check tomorrow if I can change my flight.”

“That would be nice,” Andre says. He looks at Helmut, really looks at him for the first time in a long while, and when Helmut lifts his hand to cup Andre’s cheek, he can’t help himself, leaning in to brush his lips over Helmut’s in a soft, almost chaste kiss. Helmut’s fingers twitch against his cheek, then move down to the back of Andre’s nape just as he’s about to pull back, keeping him in place as he opens his lips to deepen the kiss. “After the race,” Andre says when the kiss comes to a natural end, resting his forehead against Helmut’s for a long moment, grateful that the dim light inside the hotel room makes them barely more than a silhouette, the late hour keeping them safe from prying eyes.

“Go to bed, you need your wits about you tomorrow,” Helmut tells him and drops his hands from Andre’s body, releasing him to stand back. The urge to ask Helmut to stay, to share the bed with him is on Andre’s lips for a moment, but he knows it wouldn’t be a good idea, not when he needs to be rested and there’s more for them to work out before they can allow themselves to fall into whatever it is they’ll figure out might work. He takes a step back, then follows Helmut back into the room, sitting down on the end of the bed as he watches him cross the room. He looks a little more relaxed now, Andre thinks, smiling quietly, responding in kind when Helmut wishes him good night and then just falls backwards on the bed, stretching out his arms to either side as he exhales deeply.

 

 

 

Being send back to the end of the grid gnaws at Andre’s nerves even after he brings the car back high in the points, the question of how much higher he could have scored if he’d started where he’d actually qualified. He wants that podium, wants that first win to his name like something tangible, something to show his belonging into this sport, into this team. The jump start that ruined their team title at the end of the last season is still on his mind whenever he sits on the grid, despite how he tries to put it behind him, a chance he ruined. He knows that lingering on it doesn’t help, that he should put it behind himself, scratch it from his memory, but he hasn’t finished up to his own standards, up to his own ambition yet and he desperately wants to contribute, wants to show the team his worth and thank them for their trust, lay the ground for a second chance at the team title. Jev already asked him whether he considers signing a new contract, Jev’s own already printed and signed, but Andre hasn’t made up his mind yet, knows it isn’t in his power – as much as he gets along with everyone in the team – if he doesn’t bring the points and podiums they want.

He gets up early on the test day, despite not driving himself, has breakfast together with James and Tatiana, shares a car with them from the hotel to the track. His advice not to break his car is only half in jest as he sits with James in the drivers’ room, watching him change into his race gear. He’s got his camera with him, takes pictures from the back of the garage before he ventures out along the track. Jev catches up with him around noon to compare their shots, find the perfect angle to take pictures of their cars, even though it’s not them at the wheel. It’s a rare occasion to really take in the beauty of the sunlight glinting off the gold and black livery.

It’s early afternoon by the time he returns to the hotel. He had packed the night before, only storing his cameras away safely for the flight, checking his hand luggage for his documents. There will be a large group of team personal on the late afternoon flight back to Paris, a small armada of vans waiting to take them to the airport. The spirit in the team is good despite the race result, the cars’ speed still promising, the test going well. Andre and Helmut are the only ones having to catch the connection in Paris to fly further to Marseilles, and Andre says goodbye to everyone on the plane, knowing they won’t have a lot of time to linger to make it from one gate to the next once they land in Paris. By the time they touch down in Marseilles, Andre is ready to fall asleep, happy that he booked a driver to take them the last hour and a half to Gordes. At least traffic won’t be an issue, the evening rush hour long passed.

By unspoken agreement they’re both sitting in the back of the car after they greeted the driver, an acquaintance from Gordes who likes to make a little cash on the side, especially for the generous tips Andre gives him for these kinds of late-night pick-ups on a work day. Andre is staring out into the darkness and the flickering lights of the city passing by when Helmut’s voice startles him.

“Does he understand us?”

Andre glances across the car, shifting without taking his head from where he’s resting it against the window. “No, he doesn’t speak German. And even if he did, he can be trusted.”

Helmut hums, looking out of the window at his side for a long moment before he looks at Andre again through the darkness, his voice just so audible over the quiet music from the radio turned up in the front of the car. “You know James didn’t really want to discuss training schedules with me today.”

Andre can’t help rolling his eyes, almost having expected something along those lines. “Were his threats creative at least?”

Helmut smiles crookedly. “He’s very protective of you. That’s a good thing, I think.”

Andre laughs quietly. “That almost sounds like I can’t take care of myself.”

“You can, but I’m glad you have people around who care about you, too.”

“Like yourself?”

Helmut’s lips twitch, his eyes flickering away to look outside. “Of course. I’ll always care about you.”

“I know.” Andre’s softly spoken reply is almost drowned out by the music on the radio. Their luggage is in the back of the car, but their jackets are piled on the seat between them, a messy heap. Andre has his left hand carelessly resting on them, startles a little when he feels the sudden touch of fingers against the side of his hand. He can see Helmut’s reflection in the window of the car, but Helmut isn’t looking at where he’s reached out for Andre, so Andre keeps looking outside on his side of the car too, even though his heart is slamming loudly in his chest at the gentle, almost shy touch. He turns his hand, slowly, like he’d do with Max, conveying his intentions clearly, until his hand is resting palm up, fingers in a lose curl.

Helmut runs his fingertips over Andre’s palm, up the soft inside of his fingers, exploring the callouses and dips of his palm. It’s a timid touch, nothing special really, so it’s entirely unreasonable how it makes it hard for Andre to draw breath. The emotional exhaustion of the past weeks is suddenly crashing down around him, and he wants to curl over the seat, rest his head in Helmut’s lap and make him stroke his hair. The beginnings of a headache throbs dully at the base of his skull. He closes his eyes, pressing his forehead harder against the window of the car, feeling the steady roar of the engine transmitted through the glass. When Helmut tangles their fingers together, he squeezes them, holding on tightly. The simplicity of the touch surprises him. He feels starved for it, unused to receiving this soft kind of attention from the people he shares his bed, his body with.

As if sensing the change in his mood, Andre can feel Helmut’s eyes on him. He twists his head enough to meet his eyes when he blinks them open, turns his body to more openly face the centre of the car, if only to keep Helmut from asking whether he’s okay. He hates that question.

“You never answered my question,” Andre says instead, determined to distract them both. Helmut’s frown of confusion is genuine, and Andre can’t really blame him, though the question hasn’t slipped his own mind once over the past days. “Whether you ever slept with guys.”

With the darkness in the car only broken by the occasional headlights of other cars around them or streetlights shining in through the window it’s hard to make out the flush that creeps over Helmut’s cheeks. Andre has the urge to reach out, to feel whether his skin has turned hot to the touch.

“You’ve shared my bed more than once,” Helmut answers, trying to deflect with humour, but Andre doesn’t let him get away with it, genuinely curious about Helmut’s experience, not at all used to a potential partner with less experience than himself.

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he says, his voice low.

Helmut wets his lips, the tip of his tongue visible for a second, leaving a thin sheen of dampness behind just so visible in the glow of the street lamps. “No,” he admits, his words a low rumble. “A couple kisses, but,” he shrugs almost helplessly. “Didn’t do anything for me.”

Andre shakes his head. A rational part of his mind kind of understands Helmut’s thought process, but the larger part doesn’t. “I don’t really get you,” he admits.

“You’re different.” He shrugs again, but the intensity of his gaze is almost tangibly hot as he looks at Andre, making him shudder involuntarily. He squeezes Helmut’s fingers, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the back of his hand.

“Don’t sleep in the guestroom tonight,” Andre prompts. He can see Helmut’s hesitation, keeps talking before the other can interrupt. “Not for sex,” he says bluntly. “I’m bloody exhausted, all I want to do is sleep, I promise. I just…” he tugs on Helmut’s hand lightly. “This feels good. I want you close, please.”

The tension at the corners of Helmut’s eyes softens. “Okay,” he simply says, his fingers playing along Andre’s again, picking up their gentle exploration from earlier. Andre sighs, sinking deeper into the seat, wanting the drive to be over already, utterly ready to go to bed, even more so now that he knows he won’t be sliding between cool sheets all by himself.


	7. Chapter 7

Andre wakes to the feeling of gentle fingers running through his hair. He’s disoriented for a moment, his mind still mostly asleep, only the heat of the body he’s curled up against and the steady caress of the fingers filtering through the sleepy haze. He doesn’t dare move, barely even dares to breathe in case it’s all just a dream, an illusion, but the more he wakes, the more he realises it isn’t. It makes him even less inclined to move, keeping his eyes closed and his breathing steady as if still in sleep, not sure whether he’d spook Helmut, prompt him to stop and get out of bed.

“I know you’re awake.”

Mind reader, Andre thinks, but doesn’t say out loud. He hums quietly, not wanting to disturb the peaceful atmosphere between them, for once absent of tension. “Shh, I won’t tell if you don’t,” he murmurs quietly. He’s got one palm resting in the centre of Helmut’s chest, over the soft fabric of the t shirt he’s wearing. He slides it to his side now to pull himself closer, dozing a little longer. They didn’t set an alarm clock, no eager dog waiting for them to be let outside, the next days set aside for rest and recuperation, some training sessions but nothing with a fixed schedule yet. It’s a rare luxury, one that Andre intends to indulge in thoroughly.

He shifts, one of his legs sticking out from beneath the blanket, before he pulls it back at the chill air he feels. He hadn’t fiddled with the settings of the heating unit the night before, blaming the chill he’d felt on the tiredness, but it now becomes apparent that the house has cooled out over the days he hasn’t been around, making it even less inviting to leave the cocoon of body heat they’re wrapped up in beneath the blanket, only his ears and face above the hem.

“It’s cold,” he says, knows he sounds childish.

“I know.” Helmut’s fingers trace over the shell of his ear, down to the collar of his t shirt, squeezing at the soft skin there. “Shall we go out for breakfast? We can turn up the heating before we leave.”

“’s even colder outside, probably,” Andre complains, but his stomach is rumbling, not having had anything decent to eat since the afternoon before boarding the plane.

“Coffee is hot though. And the weather is nice.”

Andre lifts his head, squinting in the pale morning sunlight that’s filtering through the white curtains. “Only if you allow me carbs. I’m not going to sit there watching you eat pastries when I’m not allowed.”

Helmut laughs quietly, rubbing the pad of his thumb over Andre’s cheek, over the remnants of sleep beneath the corner of his eye. “You can have carbs today,” he agrees. Andre likes this side of him, he decides, his sharp edges and harsh bluntness softened. Andre has no doubt that once they’re fully awake he’ll return to the usual casual amusement he wields like a shield to keep people at a comfortable distance, so he indulges himself, resting his cheek against Helmut’s shoulder, until the other’s impatience and the rumbling of both their stomachs eventually chases them out of bed.

 

 

 

They take the car into town, even though it would only have been a short walk, but the chance to go by the grocery store after breakfast, more an early lunch by now, is a good incentive. Andre leads them to one of his favourite cafés, overlooking the market square in the centre of town. It’s decidedly too cold to sit outside, but they get a table by the window, whiling away a good hour with a mix of breakfast and lunch foods on the table, a couple coffees each. Andre can feel the buzz of caffeine in his veins when they finally decide to move on, walking across the square and along the shops surrounding it. They squabble over meal planning, end up laden with fresh produce from the shops, only have to quickly run into the bigger supermarket on the way back to pick up what they couldn’t buy at the market.

“Bike ride?” Helmut prompts in the early afternoon, after they’ve both had time to check on their work emails, the usual office work Andre doesn’t really enjoy doing after a race weekend.

Andre pulls a face, pushing his swivel chair away from his desk. It’s nice outside, but he wants to be lazy. He says so.

Helmut just arches an eyebrow in reply. “Bike ride, or weights. Not for long, but we’ll do something. And the weather forecast for the next days isn’t promising.”

They wrap up in layers of synthetics against the cool air outside, and by the time they’ve crossed from the town proper into the solitude of the surrounding hillside, Andre thinks it’s a good idea they went. The pale sunlight and crisp air are enough to chase away the lingering tendrils of anxiety from the weekend he hasn’t quite been able to shake off, the intermediate pace they’re cycling making it more of a joyride than actual training.

Dusk is falling, their shadows creeping in long lines across the roads as they head back towards the house. Andre lets Helmut have the shower first, getting distracted by a message from James on his phone, ending up in the kitchen with a bottle of water next to his elbow as he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, typing away until he starts to shiver as the sweat he worked up dries on his skin.

“Go shower, I don’t want you to catch a cold,” Helmut tells him sternly when he comes back into the kitchen some time later, putting his hand into Andre’s line of view, breaking his stare at the display of his phone. “Shower, now, you reek,” Helmut repeats.

Andre sighs, but puts down the phone on the counter, taking a big swig from the water bottle before he follows Helmut’s words and heads up to his room. The mirror over the sink is misty with steam. Andre reaches out, swiping it with his hand so he can see his face. Despite its size and the open layout, the room is comfortably warm and smelling of shower gel as he starts to strip off his workout clothes, dumping them into the hamper next to the sink. The bathmat on the floor is damp when Andre steps onto it, curling his toes as he reaches into the large glass shower to switch on the water, waiting for it to heat up. There’re spare towels hung over the heating unit on the wall, and he smiles. He lingers under the hot spray for much longer than strictly necessary, enjoying the water pressure as the water patters down onto his shoulders and the top of his spine, gazing at the travel sized bodywash and shampoo bottles Helmut left in the shower among his own bottles. They’re already mostly empty, and Andre wants to use them, to cloud himself in the scent that must currently be stuck to Helmut’s skin, wants to empty them so that tomorrow Helmut will be forced to use Andre’s. He bites his lip, pushing away the childish notion and reaches for his own bodywash before he can give into temptation.

His skin warm and rosy from the shower, Andre dresses in soft sweatpants and the t shirt he sleeps in, his mind already entirely in comfort mode for the rest of the evening. The sound of quiet music draws him into the large living room where Helmut has set up camp in one corner of the wide sofa, his laptop balanced on his knees, bare foot absently moving in time to the music that’s coming from the stereo system. Andre walks across the room, to the bookshelf with the stereo and his TV set on it but forgoes the TV, the mindless entertainment not really appealing to him. He picks up one of the books about Lemans he got for Christmas instead, the cover still pristine and new, the way Andre had leafed through it after he’d unpacked it not yet taken away that new-book-smell. Helmut shifts subconsciously when Andre sits down on the edge of the sofa, scooting back onto the wide cushions until he’s comfortably propped up between the pillows, drawing his knees up to rest the book against as he sinks into the story being told, the images of another era of racing that feels so close to his heart.

The silence between them is relaxed, companionable. From time to time, Andre lifts the book, twisting it around for Helmut to see a picture he finds interesting, reads aloud a quote that strikes him. Helmut gets up at one point, returning with cups of herbal tea, balances the cups on a tray he sets on the firm cushions between them. Sometime later he closes his laptop, sets it aside to go and retrieve his e-reader. Andre watches him return, the slight restlessness that he’s portraying, the way he settles into the pillows, trying to find a comfortable position.

“You okay?” Andre asks, watching Helmut reach up to rub at his neck.

“Hm?” Helmut glances over the top of his e-reader, dropping his hand as if just becoming aware of the movement himself. “Oh, yeah. I think I caught a bit of a draft on the plane or so yesterday,” he says, shrugging a little stiffly. “I think the cycling didn’t really help, but oh well.”

Andre contemplates him for a long moment, even as Helmut’s eyes return to the screen of his e-reader, absentmindedly reaching for his tea to take a sip. He closes his book, moves to get up off the couch and puts it on the low coffee table as he stands. The bottle of massage oil he’s looking for is in the cabinet under the sink. It’s almond oil, the scent sweeter and more flowery than the oil Helmut buys, but Andre likes what it does to his skin. He washes his hands, holding the glass bottle under the warm running water for a moment to warm it, then slinks one of the fresh towels over his shoulder, his hand closed around the bottle to not lose the warmth in it right away.

“Take off your shirt,” Andre prompts when he walks back into the living room, opening his palm to show Helmut the bottle before he sits down at the edge of the couch cushions, looking at him expectantly.

“You don’t have to, it’s going to sort itself out,” Helmut says, fingers twitching against the e-reader he’s holding in his lap, his attention on Andre now.

Andre pushes the tray with their teacups to the side, setting the bottle on it too as he shifts back onto the couch. “I’m sure it will,” he says, “but this will help. Come on, you were the one teaching me, don’t you trust my skills?” he asks, wriggling his fingers in the air between them, seeing the small smile flit over Helmut’s lips.

“You know I do,” he says and sits up to put the e-reader on the shelf next to his laptop, shifting forwards on the cushions. The couch is firm, barely dipping beneath their weight as Helmut turns around to put himself within Andre’s reach, facing away from him. He lifts his hands to reach for the back of his t shirt collar, dragging it over his head and tosses it to the end of the couch.

Andre hums in appreciation, shifting more of the throw pillows that litter the couch to the side to keep them out of harm’s way of any oil stains. He folds his legs, spreading the towel he brought over one thigh to have it in easy reach to wipe his hands on before he reaches for the bottle of massage oil, squirting some onto his palms. It’s still pleasantly warm and runny as he slicks up his hands, then gets a little more to start spreading it over Helmut’s shoulders. His skin is winter-pale and freckled. There’s a small patch of reddened skin along his throat where Andre knows the asymmetrical zipper of the fleece he wore beneath his outer jacket on the bike earlier must have dug into his skin. It’s not broken the skin though, so Andre draws his fingers over the patch gently. He moves his hands in wide swipes over the muscles and sinews of Helmut’s shoulders and upper back, mapping them out, getting a feel for the proportions and where knots of tension might be hidden within the bunched-up muscles, traces the pads of his thumbs down on either side of the points of vertebrae on his back. The oil makes his skin shine dully, reflecting the soft light of the lamps around the room.

“Tell me if I’m doing something wrong,” Andre says, keeping his voice low. There’s no need to whisper, there’s no one else around, but the quiet calm that’s settling around them as Andre starts to methodically work his fingers into the muscles of Helmut’s neck feels brittle somehow, like too harsh a word could break it. The hum that rumbles through Helmut’s chest in reply gives him the impression that Helmut feels it too. He works meticulously, starting at the top of Helmut’s spine, a little above his hairline, just beneath his skull, drawing firm circles with his thumbs, slowly inching down. His fingers are resting lightly on either side of his throat, feeling the twitch of muscles as he swallows.

It’s easy to get lost in the hypnotic movements of his hands. There’s a small row of dark freckles along one of Helmut’s shoulder blades, parallel to his spine. Andre follows them with the pad of his thumb, wonders if Helmut knows they’re even there. He never got the appeal of people tattooing their backs, not if they were the only tattoos they have, not if it was a small design they could have anywhere else. He can’t fathom twisting in front of a mirror to see what he paid for, can’t even imagine sitting down and offering someone his back, trusting a stranger to work a design under the skin where he can’t observe the work while they’re doing it.

He draws his attention away from the freckles, back to the defined shape of muscles, digging his fingers in. Helmut can’t hold back the soft hiss as Andre finds first one, then another tense knot along one side of his shoulder, massaging them out with strong, decided pressure. He’s in good shape for his age, enviably so. Andre wonders if he’ll have the discipline to keep it up with it, once his career is over, once he’s done using his body as a tool for what he really wants: racing. Endurance is a little kinder on the age of the drivers, the hard-earned experience only years and years of practise still brings an advantage to the table that gets lost in the politics of more prestigious racing series. He’s still got a couple years, but he’s under no illusion that his career is past its peak. Finding the right moment to call it quits will be a challenge, finding something to occupy his mind and body _after_ even more so. He doesn’t allow himself to linger on it too often even though he knows it’s a truth that’s coming closer every year now, every month even.

Letting that train of thought go, he exhales deeply, trying to focus on the task at hand, on the person he’s touching. He can hear the slightly ragged tone that’s snuck into Helmut’s breathing, making it a little different from the relaxed cadence it had earlier when they were reading, when they were curled in bed this morning. His fingers move over the top of Helmut’s shoulders, fingertips following the prominent sweep of his collar bone, the bone a hard ridge beneath his skin. When he splays his fingers, he can feel the soft curl of hair on Helmut’s chest. He indulges in scratching at it lightly as he drags his fingers back to the base of his throat.

The sudden touch of Helmut’s fingers to his hand startles Andre, not having anticipated it. Helmut closes his fingers around Andre’s, drawing his hand down to the centre of his chest. Below the heat of his skin, Andre can feel the rapid beat of his heart as he splays his fingers where Helmut has pressed them. “Don’t stop.”

_Why would I._ The reply swims to the forefront of Andre’s mind, knowing he can’t keep massaging Helmut’s back with just one hand, before his brain catches up to the minute tremble he feels in the muscle beneath his splayed fingers, the twitch in Helmut’s grip on his hand, the way his breathing has turned shallow. The intimacy of his hands on Helmut’s body slams into him like a freight train, feeling his own breath stutter in return.

“It’s okay, I got you,” he says softly. Fuck, he _wants_. Suddenly every inch of distance they sit from each other seems way too far. Andre unfolds his legs, stretching them on either side of Helmut’s body, shuffling closer until they’re almost chest to back. He slides his other arm underneath Helmut’s, over his ribs until the fingers of both his hands are almost touching each other where they’re splayed over his chest. He can feel Helmut exhale, his body unclenching slightly as he gives in to the loose embrace, sagging to rest against Andre’s strong body behind him. Andre takes his weight easily, unconcerned about the residue of the oil on his skin seeping into his t shirt.

It’s a role-reversal that feels almost strange to Andre. He can’t remember how often he’s fallen into Helmut’s arms – exhilarated after winning Lemans, exhausted and disappointed after his car broke down one too many times, eradicated when his mum had told him on the phone that his father had died in hospital half a globe away; being able to hold him now, to give back, feels like a privilege. He lifts his hand from Helmut’s chest to tip his chin back and to the side, nuzzling at Helmut’s jaw. His stubble is a soft scratch against Andre’s nose, his lips. Helmut sighs, letting go of his grip on Andre’s hand. Free to move his hands now, Andre reaches to the side to pick up the bottle of massage oil again, putting some more on his fingers, before he starts running them over Helmut’s chest. It’s more a caress than a conscious effort to find hurtful knots of tension, but it seems to serve the same purpose as Helmut relaxes in his arms.

“Take off your shirt?” The inflection at the end of the softly spoken words turn the demand into a request that Andre wants to follow all too happily. He presses his lips against the sinew below Helmut’s ear before he grasps Helmut’s shoulders to make him sit up just enough for Andre to pull his t shirt over his head and drop it aside. The skin of his back is hot against Andre’s chest, flushed from his ministrations. Andre wraps both arms around Helmut’s waist and pulls him close. He’s pretty sure that Helmut must feel the press of his half-hard cock through the fabric of their sweatpants against the back of his arse. He kisses below Helmut’s ear again, mouthing at his neck with barely a hint of teeth. Helmut’s left hand comes to rest on Andre’s leg, his other covers Andre’s hand, lacing their fingers together over his stomach. Andre squeezes his fingers, can’t help dragging his nails over Helmut’s stomach a little, feeling the quiver of muscles it elicits.

“I want to touch you,” Andre says, which should sound ridiculous given that their hands are all over each other, but he knows the meaning of his words will be clear to Helmut. He tilts the hand that’s still covered by Helmut’s a little, his pinky finger touching the waistband of his sweatpants. Helmut doesn’t reply, doesn’t move at all; it almost feels like he stops breathing for a moment. Andre inches his hand down, but instead of slipping his fingers under the waistband like he’d have done with James or someone else, he rubs his palm over the soft fabric of the pants, tentatively feeling for the outline of Helmut’s cock, almost breathing a sigh of relief when he finds him hard and straining beneath the layers of his clothing.

“Andre,” Helmut gasps when Andre closes his fingers around his cock, Helmut’s own grip tightening where he’s grasping Andre’s knee. He twists away slightly, and Andre is already about to let go when Helmut lifts one hand to Andre’s cheek, turning his head for a messy kiss. The angle is all awkward, barely allowing them to really touch their lips together, and Helmut makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat that Andre turns into a moan when he squeezes his cock again.

“Off. Now.” Andre growls as he pushes at the waistband of Helmut’s sweatpants, nipping at his lower lip with his teeth. “Please,” he adds when he can see the shimmer of insecurity in Helmut’s eyes, leaning in for another kiss before he sits back, consciously brining a little distance between them, both to be able to shuffle gracelessly out of his own sweatpants and to catch his breath, sort his tangled thoughts. It’s been a long time since he’s been with a less experienced lover, not really used to reassuring his bed partners. By the time he’s kicked his sweatpants over the edge of the couch, Helmut has shimmied out of his own too. He has drawn up his knees, resting his lower arms on them, his head tilted to the side as he looks at Andre warily.

Andre smiles lopsidedly. He crawls over the couch cushions, seeking out Helmut for a sweet kiss. “I’ve never seen you self-conscious before,” he says quietly in between kisses, tasting Helmut’s self-deprecating chuckle.

“First time for anything, right?” he murmurs, but some of the tense lines are gone from his face by the time Andre pulls back to crawl into his lap. They end up almost like they’d sat before, with Andre’s legs on either side of Helmut’s body, only now they’re facing each other, sitting chest to chest. Helmut’s hands have instinctively settled lightly around Andre’s waist, almost like he’s afraid to touch. Slinging his arms around Helmut’s shoulders, Andre draws him into another kiss to distract him, the kiss feeling more natural now they don’t have to crane their necks. It deepens quickly, has them licking into each other’s mouth in a way that’s almost become familiar by now, the heat that accompanies it, the need that Andre doesn’t try to hide and that is answered by the urge he can taste on Helmut’s lips in return spurring them on. He hooks his legs around Helmut’s lower back, hitching them closer, and the first drag of their cocks against each other makes them both groan. Helmut’s hands tighten their grip on Andre’s hips, holding him firmly against himself as they writhe against each other, their bodies providing teasing friction.

“It’s okay, we can go slow,” Andre says, trying to reassure him. “We won’t do anything you don’t like, we can always stop.” He lifts his hand to push a finger under Helmut’s jaw, make him look up to meet his eyes and then his lips in a soft, lingering kiss, licking slowly, patiently into his mouth. He isn’t used to this, to gentle a lover through their touches, and it’s a heady feeling, a power he hasn’t felt with James, a power he could never even imagine with Tom.

Helmut’s laugh is a choked up, dry chuckle. “You’re making me feel like a fumbling teenager.”

“I like fumbling. Fumbling is good,” Andre teases and then can’t help shuddering himself when he drags the fingers of one hand down Helmut’s chest, making him aware of where he’s going with it before he reaches their cocks, wrapping his hand around both of them. They curse at the same time, hips bucking towards each other. His hand isn’t quite big enough to comfortable encompass both their cocks, so Andre focusses his attention on cupping Helmut’s dick, rubbing it against his own and both against his lower stomach.

“Fuck, you’re hot,” Helmut says quietly. His head is bowed, forehead resting on Andre’s shoulder as he’s gazing down at where they’re so snuggly pressed together. Andre hides his grin against Helmut’s ear, nipping at it playfully, knowing that Helmut didn’t mean it as flattery, more a conscious observation of the heat they’re generating together. He makes a disgruntled little noise when Andre pulls his hand away, taking away some of the rough friction.

Andre reaches for Helmut’s hands on his hips instead, adjusting their position until Helmut is cupping his arse, making sure they stay close even as Andre grinds his hips a little in demonstration, only letting go of Helmut’s hands when he’s sure the other won’t let go. This close, he can feel Helmut’s dick twitch against his own. Now both hands free, Andre reaches for the massage oil he’d set aside earlier, squirting a probably excessive amount into his open palm before he sneaks both his hands between their bodies. The first slide of his hands now closing in around their cocks, trapping them between them is uncoordinated, the second all slick pressure, and fuck, it’s good, confirmed by the startled moan and the almost painfully tight squeeze of Helmut’s hands on Andre’s arse.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Andre reassures when he feels Helmut buck against him, trying to pull Andre closer at the same time. Andre goes with it, desperate to set up some kind of rhythm, the slick, wet, tight slide of their bodies against each other starting to drive him crazy with need. He tightens his legs around Helmut, wishing he had more arms to pull him in closer, to wrap himself around him head to toe. He leans his head in, bites at Helmut’s jaw, making him look up almost startled, and then they’re kissing again, a desperate clash of teeth and tongues.

“Fuck, Andre.” There’s a curious tremble to Helmut’s voice that Andre has never heard before, that he tries to elicit from Helmut again, that he knows he might become addicted to if that’s what he sounds like close to orgasm. They’re bucking against each other without much design, Andre’s hands getting trapped in their movements between their bodies again and again, until he’s reduced more to squeezing and kneading at their throbbing cocks than actually jerking them. Part of Andre wants to sit back, wants to put his own pleasure aside to give Helmut a glorious, drawn out and skilful handjob until he’s a writhing mess begging Andre to finish him; another part wants to just push him back into the pillows and rub himself off against Helmut’s stomach, just take and ignore the other’s pleasure completely, marking him with his come and sweat and scent. Neither part wins out though, and when Helmut drags one hand up over Andre’s spine to press between his shoulder blades and pull him forwards into Helmut’s body, Andre just goes with it. He curls into the embrace, hiding his face in the crook of Helmut’s neck, biting down over the fluttering pulse point he’d already found with his fingers earlier.

It seems to be the last little bit of sensation that Helmut needs to be pushed over the edge. His moan is almost startled as Andre can feel his dick impossibly harden beneath his fingers, can feel it throb and the sudden wetness of come so different to the oil as it spurts from the tip. He swipes his thumbs through it, over the sensitive crown, and feels Helmut shudder violently in reply, a breathless litany of gasps and quiet curses falling from his lips as he starts to go soft within Andre’s hands.

Andre lets Helmut’s spent dick slip from his fingers, now only needing one hand to jerk himself. He squeezes his fingers tightly around himself, cursing when suddenly the grip Helmut had on his arse disappears. Everything tilts for a moment before he realises what’s going on, unhooking his own legs from behind Helmut’s back when the other leans back. Helmut stretches out on the couch, coming to rest on his elbows as Andre ends up sitting more firmly on his lap, on his thighs. The hungry gaze with which Helmut looks at him slays him.

“Let me see,” Helmut asks, his usually clear eyes gone entirely dark, gaze not wavering from where Andre his thrusting his hips up, the head of his cock pushing through the tight clench of his fist.

“Fuck,” Andre grits out, grinding his jaw. He sways forwards, bracing his free hand on Helmut’s chest as he fists his cock roughly, teetering on the edge. Then Helmut covers Andre’s hands with his own, both the one on his chest as well as the one that’s wrapped around Andre’s cock as if wanting to jerk him himself, and Andre can feel the world spiralling away from him as he comes hard, streaks of come flying over his fingers and Helmut’s stomach.

Andre sags forwards, half-heartedly trying to hold himself up before he gives in and falls into Helmut’s arms, not caring at all about the mess they’ve made as he presses his face into Helmut’s neck, both their breathing not returning to normal for a long while. He’s licking the cooling sweat from Helmut’s neck when he can feel soft fingers running up and down his spine, making him shiver from more than just the gentle touch. “You okay?” Helmut hums in reply, his fingers not stopping their trail up and down Andre’s back. “Shower?”

That makes Helmut chuckle. “Yes. And I’m not going to be the one trying to clean the couch tomorrow.”

Andre can’t help an amused snort, mock-biting Helmut’s neck before he pushes himself up to his elbows, looking down at him. “Good thing I already asked my decorator about some washable covers for the couches.”

Helmut quirks an eyebrow incredulously. “For sex? Really?”

Andre cackles. “Well, originally for dog hairs and other hazards, but it’s a good excuse, isn’t it?” He leans down and captures Helmut’s mouth in a slow, gentle kiss. “You really okay though?” he asks between nips at his lower lip.

“Yes, really,” Helmut confirms. He hugs Andre tightly, indulging in another long kiss tinted with the sensuality of afterglow. “Shower does sound good though. And then I want to kiss you some more but in a proper bed. With sheets we can wash.”


	8. Chapter 8

They spend another two days in Gordes together. Despite the training units Helmut makes him do and the interview requests and office things Andre has to fulfil now that the team is looking forward to Santiago, it almost feels like vacation to Andre. Gordes has become a sanctuary to him, a town he can walk around without anyone asking for autographs or snapping pictures, the familiar language like balm to his nerves. The weather is nice, the occasional rain shower easily waited out inside the vast space of his house that doesn’t feel as lonely with the clutter of another person around the living room, the sound of someone else talking on the phone or a radio switched on, bare feet on the polished concrete floors warmed by underfloor heating.

Jev calls him at the end of the week. “Did you see the flight details for Santiago yet?” he asks after a couple minutes of small talk.

“Give me a moment,” Andre answers, raising his laptop out of sleep modus, clicking through the emails the team sent him. His face falls when he sees the early morning take-off time, the time they’ll need for check in and security he deducts automatically, knowing they’ll have to be at the airport in the middle of the night. He can’t help cursing quietly.

“Yeah, just my thought,” Jev agrees with a long sigh. “Do you want to stay at my place? We can have a super late dinner, pull an all-nighter, go straight to the airport and then sleep on the plane?”

“Might as well,” Andre says.

Jev laughs. “A little more enthusiasm for my hospitality please? If you’re not nice, I won’t ask Charlie if she’s okay with you staying in her room again. All you’ll get is the couch.”

“I thought we were pulling an all-nighter,” Andre asks, and can’t help smiling. “And you remember I do Lemans, right? I can sleep anywhere.”

Jev snickers. “Yeah, you do. Let me know when you’re coming up to the factory. Mi casa es su casa, bro.”

“Looking forward to it. Cheers, mate.” He sits back in his chair after they’ve hung up, just staring out of the window for a long moment, mentally making a list of all the things he must do before leaving for Paris, of all the items he needs to pack for the race weekend. He’d already made up his mind a while back about taking the chance to spend a couple days in Peru with his family, wonders if he can buy another filter for his camera in Paris before they leave the continent.

“Thinking hard thoughts?” Helmut asks as he walks in from the kitchen, carrying two cups of coffee. Andre doesn’t startle, having seen his reflection in the glass of the windows into the garden, turns his chair to look at Helmut as he sets the coffee down on the table in front of Andre. He hesitates for a moment before he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Andre’s lips. Andre can’t help the small smile, tongue flicking out to lick his lips, tasting coffee. They’ve known each other for too long to be shy around each other, but Helmut had never been outwardly affectionate with his touches; it doesn’t come naturally to him. Andre appreciates the effort he’s making, enjoying what he gets.

“I love seeing all the countries, but I could do without all the plane rides,” he admits, making Helmut chuckle. He reaches for the coffee, cradling the hot cup between his hands. “I told you I’m going to Peru, right?” he asks, waiting for Helmut’s nod. “Would you want to come with me?”

Helmut takes a sip of his coffee, is silent for a long moment. “You know I’ve got to go back to Seefeld tomorrow, right? We’d never planned my coming along to Santiago or anything.”

“I know. I don’t mean this time, just, in general. Would you want to?”

“See your roots, your family,” Helmut muses. “Yeah, I… I think I’d want to. Your father was a great man.”

They don’t talk about his family, his father, often. Andre hates that the memory of him still feels like a sore tooth. Fuck, it’s been almost ten years, he should be over it by now, but somehow it just doesn’t seem to get any better. He takes a deep breath, trying to dispel the heavy mood.

“Do they know you’re gay?”

Andre almost wants to laugh. “No. They wouldn’t understand. They’re very… traditional.”

Helmut hums, taking another sip of his coffee. He’s from a different generation, Andre knows he’s grown up around a mindset closer to his family in Peru than to the open-mindedness his parents tried to raise him with. “Have you ever thought about being out? To the public, I mean?” he asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

Andre does laugh now, though it doesn’t sound happy to his own ears. “Do you really think that could ever be an option?” he asks. “After I’m done racing, maybe. But. Not when I still want to race in a competitive car, in a competitive team, in all the countries we’re currently racing in. I’m not stupid.” He doesn’t want to be sad about it; he doesn’t want to be angry about it. It’s a fact he’s lived with ever since he admitted to himself that glorious model girlfriends and trophy wives would not be part of his future. That doesn’t make it fair, but what leverage does he have to change anything?

Helmut’s hand against his arm startles him out of his thoughts. “You’re tired of it,” Helmut observes.

Andre doesn’t think he needs to reply to that, takes another sip of his coffee. He pushes himself to his feet, leaning against Helmut’s side for a moment. “It’s a bloody waste of energy.” Before he can turn away, Helmut catches his wrist.

“I’ll come to Peru with you next time. If you want.”

Andre halts in his tracks. He waits for Helmut’s grip to ease on his wrist, moves his hand to weave their fingers together. “Thank you.” His smile is genuine this time. “What do you say, shall we go out for dinner? I don’t feel like cooking tonight.”

“Like a date?” Helmut asks, smiling in return. “Yeah, let’s go on a date.”

 

 

 

The small restaurant is three steps down from street level of the small cobble stone alleys in the old town centre. The starched white table cloth and old china they serve the dishes on seem outdated in contrast to the modern cuisine. In unspoken agreement they keep drinking water even though the food would go well with one of the light white wines that are grown in the region, small portions artfully arranged on the plates, local produce cooked to perfection. There isn’t a menu to choose from, the chef deciding the meal order of the night, and Andre enjoys just sitting back, no need to think, no need to control anything. Helmut is a little wary at first, not used to just eating what is set in front of him, but his opinion changes after the first forkful, grinning at Andre when Andre asks him whether he likes it.

It's a starry, clear winter night. The air is crisp, the faintest wisps of fog gathering in the valleys as they drive the short way home. The chime of church bells telling eleven o’clock chases them out of town. When they reach the gate to his house, Helmut gets out of the car without being asked, unlocking the gates and pulling them aside to let Andre through. Andre watches him in the rear-view mirror as he pulls them closed. Gravel is crunching under the soles of his shoes as he walks up to the house where Andre has parked the car next to the stairs, not bothering with parking it in the garage since he’ll use it the next morning to take Helmut to the airport to catch his flight to Munich. He gets out of the car, leaning back against the closed door as he waits for Helmut to walk up to him.

“So, how do we end this date?” he asks. Helmut is wearing a scarf over his unzipped jacket, the heating in the car not really making it necessary to bundle up against the cold. Andre reaches out for it, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers before he uses it to draw Helmut closer. “Good night kiss on the doorstep?”

“I thought you might want to invite me in for coffee?” Helmut asks back.

Andre smirks. “On the first date? You must think I’m easy.”

Helmut can’t stop the peal of laughter. “I assure you, you’re everything, but easy you are not.” Andre can’t help himself, using the leverage he has by pulling on the end of Helmut’s scarf to pull him close for a kiss, playful and sweet. Helmut hums contently when they pull apart. “That was nice,” he says. “But do I still get invited in for a drink?”

A little later in the living room, Andre is watching Helmut as he’s walking along the shelves until he’s standing in front of the cabinet that Andre uses as a bar, looking at the labels on the bottles inside while Andre goes to retrieve two glasses from the kitchen. It’s too late for coffee, not when they both need some rest before the early start tomorrow morning; they didn’t have alcohol with dinner, so a small drink now won’t do any harm.

Helmut has opened the door to the cabinet, picking up a half empty bottle. As Andre walks up to him, he can see which bottle he’s holding in his hand, studying the label, the words written in marker pen on it a messy scrawl, smudged and stained where the alcohol had spilled down the side of the bottle. Tom’s signature barely legible.

“Not that one,” he says reflexively before he can school his face into a dismissive mask.

Helmut glances at him, one eyebrow quirked curiously. “It’s not good?” he asks, unscrewing the cork to sniff at it.

It’s damned good, Andre knows, biting his lip. It’s Tom’s favourite. “It was a gift,” he says as he sets the glasses down on a nearby shelf, taking the bottle from Helmut’s hand with a gesture he hopes doesn’t feel too rude, places it back in its place in the cabinet. He stares at it for a long moment.

“And you’re unwilling to share?” Helmut asks, his voice carefully neutral as he crosses his arms over his chest, leaning with his shoulder against the shelves.

“Tom gave it to me.” Andre looks at Helmut, then back at the bottle of whiskey. Tom always had a bottle of it at his home, ordered it when he could get it in restaurants and at events they were invited to; yes, Tom gave this bottle to him, a house warming gift when he’d learned that Andre had moved to Gordes. Andre hadn’t told him that he already had bought a bottle himself, still waiting on a shelf in the basement among the bottles of wine and other beverages he’d stored there, untouched, but just in case Tom would come by. He doesn’t want Helmut to drink it, he doesn’t want Helmut to enjoy it even though he’s sure he would; he doesn’t want Helmut to taste like Tom when they kiss.

Before Andre can decide, can reach for a different bottle, Helmut has given the cabinet door a soft push, making it swing around slowly until the magnet holding it closed snicks softly as it catches. Andre doesn’t mind, his desire for a casual drink gone. If he were by himself, the mood he can feel licking at the edges of his mind would be incentive enough to down the whole bottle. He turns away, crossing the living room and walks into the kitchen, his throat dry. The water bottle he takes from the fridge is cold in his hand as he takes a careful sip.

Helmut has followed him into the dim kitchen. Andre hasn’t bothered to switch on any light, the lamps in the living room behind casting Helmut’s face into shadow as he waits in the doorway. Andre leans back against the counter, playing with the plastic bottle in his hand just for something to do. Helmut has cocked his head to the side in a way that indicates he’s about to say something, though Andre can’t see his face clear enough to know in what direction his thought process might have gone, waits him out instead.

“This,” Helmut starts eventually, uncrossing his arms to gesture vaguely between them. “I know we haven’t discussed what it’s going to be like, you know? That’s okay, we don’t-“ he pauses, searching for words. He sighs. “I don’t want you to see Tom. Please.”

Andre can feel his heckles raise, his skin prickle. The plastic bottle in his hand crinkles as his hand tightens around it. “You can’t dictate who I spend my time with,” he replies, his voice low. “Whether we’re in a relationship or not.”

Helmut shakes his head. “I’m not dictating anything. I’m asking you not to.”

“Are you jealous? I’m not going to cheat on you with him,” he can’t help biting back. They haven’t discussed exclusivity yet, haven’t discussed a lot of things. Andre had anticipated to just wait it out, to see what would fall into place naturally. Now he thinks they should have talked more.

“I’m not scared of you cheating; I trust you,” Helmut says. “But I don’t like the way he’s treating you. He doesn’t deserve your adoration, Andre, he’s treating you like a kicked puppy begging for scraps, giving you attention when he’s bored or in need of getting his ego stroked, and you let him. And I know you’re hating yourself for it.”

Andre turns around, bracing his hands on the counter top as he stares at the darkness outside the window, the plastic water bottle crushed between his fingers and the counter top. The sound of Helmut’s socked feet on the concrete floor is loud in the otherwise silent house as he slowly walks through the kitchen. Andre lets his head hang, can see him move closer at the edge of his vision.

“I don’t know why you go back to him again and again and again,” Helmut murmurs as he comes up behind him.

“He…” Andre starts, but he doesn’t really know how to explain what hard to fight gravity Tom so easily casts around himself: it’s more than just the image of the legend he cultivated, the idea of a man larger than life itself, larger than the sport that made his name, the idea Andre fell in love with all those years ago. The addiction that came from the power imbalance between them, that made it so easy for Tom to take and for Andre to willingly give up everything. “He never lied to me. He never led me on. He showed me his real self, behind the media façade, all the control and manipulation and ruthlessness he used to get where he is now,” Andre confesses, trying to explain what he never had to put into words before. “It doesn’t feel good, but it feels real. Tangible.”

“And this doesn’t feel real?” Helmut asks. He leans into Andre, his hands sliding around Andre’s waist carefully. He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of Andre’s jeans, a light tug. Light, careful, tentative. Andre swallows as he closes his eyes, leaning back until he can feel the solidity of Helmut’s body behind him, holding him up. No, it doesn’t feel real, _this_ doesn’t feel real. It’s all too fleeting, tugged away into the winter break, days that never feel real to him anyway. His calendar works in race weekends, his body clock in before and after a race, the endless days around Christmas and New Year’s all too strange to him. What happened between them doesn’t feel like it belongs to the life he normally leads, the side of Helmut he is starting to get to know now so different from the one he’s used to from decades of friendship.

Andre knows he isn’t being fair, not really, not when Helmut told him that he doesn’t have any experience with men, all his apprehension about taking advantage of Andre, as ridiculous as that sounds to his own ears, as ridiculous as it feels from his side of the relationship. He wants this, he’s tried to show Helmut that; what he needs is for Helmut to stop holding back, to stop treating him like he’s going to crumble the next moment. He isn’t used to anyone taking their time, to going slow, being wary; especially not Helmut, who he only knows from his assertiveness, his no-bullshit attitude, the sure touches and commands with which he’s steered Andre through a million training units in two dozen different kinds of sports. He’d easily put his life in Helmut’s hands, has done so when climbing, has put his mental state in his hands even more often, never doubting Helmut would know what to do, how to put him back together.

As if to confirm his train of thoughts, he covers Helmut’s hands with his own, moving them up his body to place one over his stomach, one over his chest, a tighter embrace than the lose hold Helmut had on him. He can feel Helmut’s fingers twitch against his body, but his hands remain open, barely any real pressure. If Andre lifted his hands from Helmut, would he let go of him too? The thought makes Andre bite at his own lip until the momentary panic has ebbed away.

“Is it real to you?” He throws the question back at Helmut, genuinely curious, his fatalistic mind already jumping ahead to the worst answers he could receive. “I don’t know whether you really think this could last, or if you still believe this is just a fleeting fancy from my side, an itch I want to scratch now that you’ve given me the opportunity.” He’s ready for the rejection that must follow; really, he should be used to it by now, Andre thinks.

Helmut’s exhale is long and slow, sounding loud so close to Andre’s ear. “Doubt is a nagging bitch, isn’t it?” he says after a moment. “I’m sorry this is hurting you. But I really want us to last. To have a real chance, for a start.”

Helmut’s hands barely restrict him as Andre turns in them, feeling them settle on the small of his back. He cocks his head to the side, trying to read the expression in Helmut’s eyes; he isn’t quite sure what he sees, but at least Helmut isn’t trying to hide, doesn’t avert his eyes or turn his face away. Andre can feel the muscles around his eyes twitch restlessly, his teeth grind. His hands pull on Helmut, wanting him closer as he steps forwards at the same time. Helmut almost falters under the opposing gestures, takes a reflexive step backwards, and then another, allowing Andre to crowd him against the kitchen island. He is still wearing the nice button-down shirt he put on over his t shirt for dinner. Andre lowers his head, pushing his face against Helmut’s neck, nuzzling along the collar. He breathes in deeply, inhaling the scent of his aftershave, the traces of laundry detergent and sweat, the scent of his skin. He lifts one hand into the space between them, flicking open the second and third button of his shirt to loosen the collar, granting him access to more skin, the softer collar of Helmut’s t shirt.

“Don’t stop me,” Andre murmurs. Whatever reply Helmut could give is lost in the gasp that Andre startles from him as he sinks his teeth into his neck hard. Helmut’s fingers dig into his hips harshly in return, and Andre hums against his neck, still worrying the skin between his teeth, biting at it, soothing the sting with his tongue a moment later. This, this feels real: Helmut’s taste on his tongue, his skin under his teeth, his body under his hands. Andre licks over his neck again, moving his head back to see the bruise forming there. Helmut’s departure tomorrow feels too early, their time together all too fleeting; he wants Helmut to take something along, some reminder every time he looks in the mirror. One of Helmut’s hands has moved up to his neck, guiding Andre to meet his eyes, to lean in, but Andre foregoes his mouth, doesn’t meet him for a kiss, instead bites at his jaw. “Don’t.”

Without meeting Helmut’s eyes he drops to his knees, leaning his forehead against Helmut’s stomach. Startled, Helmut rests his hands on Andre’s shoulders tentatively, thumbs rubbing circles. Andre wants to shake his head, but just ends up pushing his nose against the metal of Helmut’s belt buckle. His hands find the backs of Helmut’s thighs, anchoring himself as he bites at the warm leather of his belt, his hot breath pushing through the layers of fabric, making Helmut shudder. He dips his head, following the line of his zipper, pressing his face against the fabric of Helmut’s jeans, feeling the vague outline of his dick beneath the layers.

Andre waits for a long moment, waits for Helmut to push him away, or soft words requesting he stands back up. He doesn’t want to ask for permission, not when he fears asking that could push Helmut to reject him, so he takes his silence for consent as he reaches up to make quick work of his belt buckle and the button of his jeans, dragging down the zipper. With a decisive pull he drags Helmut’s jeans and briefs down to midthigh, just far enough to free his cock. He isn’t hard; Andre hadn’t really expected him to be. He leans in, licking over Helmut’s lower stomach, tugging with his teeth on the trail of hairs leading down to the base of his cock, follows it down until he can put his mouth there.

Helmut exhales sharply, pulling one hand from Andre’s shoulder to grasp the edge of the counter with a knuckle-white grip. Andre stills, only continuing when Helmut doesn’t move away. He licks down the length of him, two, three times before carefully lifts him into his mouth. Helmut’s thighs tense, his hips bucking forwards despite the way he keeps himself still. Andre doesn’t really know what to make of it, the way Helmut observes and waits, the only reaction Andre gets is the steady hardening of Helmut’s cock in his mouth as he sucks strongly, the deepening of Helmut’s breathing. He takes him all the way into his mouth, past the point where he can’t draw breath anymore, holding him there for a moment before he pulls back, satisfied as Helmut can’t bite back a small groan.

Looking up, Andre catches Helmut’s eyes, making sure he’s watching as he spits into his hand before he grabs his cock, tugging it experimentally, listening to Helmut’s breath stutter. He dips his head down again, sticking out his tongue. The slow, firm movements of his hand pull the foreskin down with every tug, and he licks at his tip, tonguing the slit. He indulges in the taste, teasing a drop of precome out of him. Helmut’s hand twitches against his shoulder.

He glances up as he takes the tip of his cock back into his mouth, sucking harshly as he reaches for Helmut’s hand where his fingers are resting on his shoulder. For a moment their fingers tangle, the touch feeling almost more intimate than the weight of the cock on his tongue. He uses the hold on Helmut’s fingers to lift his hand, places it on his head. He squeezes Helmut’s fingers to encourage him to keep them there before he lets go, blissfully noting how Helmut strokes over his hair, carding through the strands. Andre hums encouragingly, his hands returning to the back of Helmut’s thighs to anchor himself, bobbing his head experimentally.

“Fuck, Andre.” Helmut gasps, his voice trembling around the words. His fingers pet Andre’s head aimlessly, his thighs and the taut muscles of his lower stomach quivering with how he holds himself still. Andre wants to unravel him. He sucks in a quick breath and on the next move of his head goes deep, fighting his gag reflex, swallows. Helmut moans, his fingers twitching in Andre’s hair, so Andre repeats it, waiting for that tug on his hair, waiting for Helmut to give in to what Andre is offering, to take.

But it doesn’t happen.

It’s endlessly frustrating. Andre can feel the need gnawing at himself, tearing at his self-control, at the fragile headspace of being wanted. _It’s like you’re made for this, only this._ Tom’s words swim to the forefront of his mind, the same sentiment he’d repeated so often when he had Andre on his knees like this, when he had pushed hard to train him to give up his gag reflex so many years ago; hell, even James wouldn’t pass up the invitation Andre tries to convey; most one night stands wouldn’t even care whether it was what Andre would want, just greedily taking.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong, what he’s doing wrong, that Helmut doesn’t get it, doesn’t get what he wants, what he needs. He doesn’t know how to make Helmut just give in, to do what he wants, not when in any other aspect of their relationship Helmut never has a problem with pushing and demanding and taking, with making Andre do what he thinks is best. _Maybe he just doesn’t want you like that_ , that nagging voice at the back of his mind tells him. _Maybe he just thought he’s attracted to you, but now that he’s trying it out, he really isn’t into it. Isn’t into you. Maybe he’s just indulging you, because he doesn’t know how to tell you he doesn’t want you._

Andre is stuck in his head, in his spiralling thoughts, his attention slipping from what he’s doing. He’s done this so often though, in any kind of state of exhaustion and consciousness that Helmut doesn’t notice any faltering in Andre’s rhythm, any insecurity lacing through his skill. The sudden buck of Helmut’s hips against his mouth startles Andre into a state of semi-awareness and he suddenly realises that Helmut must be close. He glances up, sees that Helmut has closed his eyes tightly, his head hanging down, his fingers clenched tight around the edge of the counter at odds with the still tentative touch on Andre’s hair.

Andre wants it to be over. He sets his mind to it, taking Helmut’s cock in deep again, swallowing around him once, twice, and then he can feel it, Helmut’s cock pulsing as he comes, spunk at the back of his throat almost making Andre gag despite the practise he has; he swallows, and by the time he pulls back, his vision gone slightly blurry at the edges from lack of oxygen, there’s barely any trace of the taste of spunk left when he lets Helmut’s cock slip from his mouth.

He’s a mess. His jaw aches slightly from the strain, lips puffy and smeared with saliva. He’s painfully, humiliatingly turned on. He wants to turn away, to nurse his bruised ego in peace, but the destructive streak in him can’t be quieted. What if Helmut really isn’t as into him as he thought, now that he’s got some real experience to compare to what he might have fantasised about, might have elevated onto a pedestal Andre never had a chance to compare to anyway.

Helmut slouches slightly, his body pliant after his orgasm. He’s still holding himself propped against the counter, but his tight grip on the edge has eased slightly. He blinks his eyes open blearily, visibly trying to pull himself together.

Andre doesn’t want to give him a chance to gather his wits. He gets to his feet, opening the button and fly of his jeans as he crowds close, pushing his jeans and underwear out of the way. Helmut flinches when Andre cups his sensitive cock and balls, fingers pushing between his thighs, dragging through the remnants of saliva, come and sweat. He spreads his fingers, pushes his aching cock into the gap between Helmut’s thighs. He wraps his arms around Helmut’s body, presses his face into the crook of his neck, lips close to the mark he left there earlier.

“Close your thighs,” Andre prompts, rolling his hips forwards. He digs his teeth into the already bruised skin of Helmut’s neck when he doesn’t comply right away, groaning when Helmut shifts, the sudden pressure of his well-built legs trapping his cock. It’s not as tight as fucking his arse, there isn’t enough slick to make it an easy glide, but Andre embraces the drag against his cock, the friction adding a sharp edge to the pleasure he doesn’t crave as much as the mindlessness of release he’s chasing.

Helmut closes one hand around the back of his neck, the other at the small of his back, touching the bare skin of Andre’s arse as he thrusts against him, not stopping him despite what must be too much friction against his still sensitive cock. “It’s okay,” he says quietly, his voice hoarse, and Andre closes his eyes tightly, biting at Helmut’s neck again as he feels his orgasm shudder through him, that painful tension inside him uncoiling fiercely. He clutches at Helmut, for a moment making him carry his full bodyweight. His hips twitch futilely as the slide of his cock is eased by his come now coating the inside of Helmut’s thighs, the back of his jeans.

It’s fucking sordid.

Andre pulls away, out of Helmut’s embrace as soon as he’s got enough energy not to topple over on his own, averting his eyes as he fastens his jeans. He turns around, his hand shaking slightly as he opens one of the kitchen drawers, digging a pack of cigarettes out, a lighter tucked into the half-empty pack.

Helmut hasn’t moved, watching him warily, still silent, and it unnerves Andre enough to either shout at him, punch him, or walk away.

He chooses the latter, shivering in the cold night air as he steps outside onto the patio, closing the door behind him.

 

 

 

By the time Andre feels settled enough to go back inside, the pack of cigarettes is almost empty. He folds up the blanket and returns it to the plastic chest on the patio before he opens the door and goes back into the kitchen. He leaves the cigarettes on the kitchen counter, doesn’t switch on any lights as he staggers towards the stairs, feeling his way along the layout of the house in the dark.

The light he sees coming from the open door of the master bedroom as he walks up the stairs surprises him; he turns his head, looking at the door of the guest bedroom, but it’s as untouched as it’s been over the past days. Steeling himself, he goes into his bedroom, lingering close by the door. The air is warm, humid from the shower Helmut took, the scent of Andre’s bodywash still lingering in the air. The open layout of the room allows him to see the droplets of water still clinging to the glass wall of the shower on the other side of the bedroom. The rustling of fabric catches Andre’s attention and he turns towards the bed, can see Helmut sit up and turn to look at him over the waist-high wall that doubles as a bedhead.

Andre draws a shallow breath. “I’m going to sleep in the other room,” he says quietly, gesturing at the hallway and the guest bedroom further down.

“No,” Helmut says. He nods at the shower cubicle. “Shower.”

Averting his eyes, Andre clenches his teeth, his gaze returning to look at the shower. He doesn’t want to fight, he’s just tired. His skin is cold from the time spent outside. The thin blanket had been warm enough to keep him from catching a cold, but not enough to entirely keep the cool night air at bay. Without answering he crosses the room, hands going to the buttons on his shirt, unbuttoning just enough that he can draw the fabric over his head, tossing it in the direction of the free-standing bathtub. The shower stall is out of direct line of sight of the bed and he leans in to start the water before he strips the rest of the way, grateful for the noise of the running water to drown out anything Helmut says from across the room. He steps under the water, closing his eyes as he lifts his face into the stream, bracing his hands against the wall. The hot water tingles against his cold skin, turning it lobster red in a matter of seconds, but Andre doesn’t mind, doesn’t take note of it. He turns his head to the side to take a long breath.

When he opens his eyes, he can see movement in his peripheric vision, watches silently as Helmut is coming towards the shower, stopping on the other side of the glass wall, his arms crossed over his bare chest, hair still damp and sticking up wildly from when Helmut dried it haphazardly with a towel or run his fingers through it.

“What happened, downstairs?” Helmut asks, his voice calm but raised slightly to be heard over the running water. “Everything was good, and then I suddenly lost you.”

Andre doesn’t think he has the words to explain what he feels. “Was it though?” he replies, swallowing a mouthful of water. “Good, I mean,” he explains when he sees Helmut frown. “Was it good for you? If you’re just indulging me, that’s okay. You can tell me if it turns out you don’t actually want me.”

Helmut exhales slowly. “You couldn’t tell? I came, didn’t I.”

Andre snorts derisively. “You’re actually naïve if you think that says anything.” He straightens, putting both hands on the glass wall separating them. “You want to know how often I’ve come without liking what was being done to me?” he sneers.

The way Helmut looks almost like he’s been slapped is strangely satisfying to Andre’s state of mind.

“That’s rape,” Helmut says a long moment later.

Andre sneers again. “It’s not. It’s all consensual. Sometimes I even ask for it.” That doesn’t mean he doesn’t hate himself for it afterwards, but he’s pretty sure Helmut knows that without being told. There’s a flash of something almost like pity in Helmut’s eyes, something that Andre doesn’t want; he wants to see shock, acknowledgement of his depravity. He wants Helmut to see all the ugliness he always denies Andre possesses, wants him to take a step back and go sleep in the guest bedroom. He wants to tear them apart like a band-aid ripped off in a single instance, instead of drawing this out, instead of Helmut indulging him now and next week and maybe the week after, until Andre is so dependent on his touch that the inevitable admission that he isn’t what Helmut wants is going to break him apart completely.

“Your head is a minefield, you know?” Helmut says eventually. He looks to the floor, contemplating for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the inside of his arm. “How do I show you I enjoyed it?” he asks, his chin raised in challenge as he catches Andre’s eyes. “What do you usually ask for? How do you want me to touch you?”

Thrown by the question instead of the rebuke he’d expected, Andre opens his mouth slightly without knowing what to answer. He licks the water from his lips, swallows. “How about you touch me at all?” he throws back, remembering the barely-there touch of Helmut’s hand on his shoulder, the tentative touch to his hair only after Andre had placed his hand there to begin with; Helmut’s request to see when they were on the couch the other night, but his reluctance to touch him then too, despite tolerating Andre’s hands on him. Ashamed, Andre turns away from the glass, bracing his hands on either side of the fixture, hanging his head low as the water hits his shoulders. He wants to hide, to become one with the wall. The glass of the shower makes him feel like an insect under an examination glass.

Hands suddenly touching his hips make Andre jump, startled. Helmut has stripped out of his briefs and stepped into the shower behind Andre. He presses his body against Andre’s back, hooking his chin over his shoulder as he embraces him from behind, getting soaked by the water anew.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, pressing his lips below Andre’s ear and Andre shudders. “I didn’t realise how much you needed this,” he says, hands starting to roam over Andre’s chest and stomach. Andre inhales, his breath hitching in a way that sounds too close to a sob to his own ears as he leans back, pushing his weight against Helmut, enjoying the sturdy resistance he feels. “I’ve touched you so often in the past,” he continues almost conversationally, but his voice is low, warm. “I just enjoyed seeing your hands on me for a change; I didn’t want to interrupt you, I wanted to see what you’d want to do, what you like.” He strokes his right hand down over Andre’s lower stomach, unashamedly cupping his cock. “Your hands on me felt so good.”

Helmut pushes against Andre firmly enough to carry them a step forwards, out of the direct spray of the water and within reach of the wire shelf in the corner holding Andre’s shampoo and bodywash. He reaches out for the shampoo bottle, squeezing a generous amount into his hands before reaching up, moving his own head out of the way just far enough not to get suds all over himself as he starts lathering up Andre’s hair, strong fingers working through his hair, massaging at his skull.

Straightening, Andre lets go of the wall, leaning back when Helmut’s hands move from his head to his shoulders, continue down his arms and then come up over his chest. Helmut reaches out for the shelf again, picking up the bodywash that Andre had already smelled earlier when walking into the room, squeezing some onto his hands before he returns his attention to Andre’s body, systematically touching every part of him. He eventually reaches out to circle Andre’s wrist, making him lift his hand to steady himself against the shower wall before he steps back, then crouches down, running his sudsy hands over his arse and the back of his thighs down to wash his legs and feet. When he gets back up and embraces Andre, he can feel the hard length of Helmut’s cock press against the crease of his arse.

Moaning quietly, Andre leans back, can’t help grinding his hips back to make Helmut’s breath catch in return. He senses that Helmut opens his mouth to say something, reaches back to card his fingers through Helmut’s wet hair, pulling his head forwards until his mouth is against Andre’s neck. Helmut bites down obediently, licking and kissing everywhere his mouth can reach. Andre exhales, grateful; he’s done talking, he doesn’t want to hear anything more, doesn’t think his mind would take it in anyway; his body is thrumming under the feel of the hot shower still pelting down on them both and the firm feel of Helmut’s body behind him, his strong hands roaming over his skin, the heat of his desire where he’s rubbing his cock against Andre’s arse. It’s a heady feeling, making Andre want to give in completely, to just bend down and demand Helmut fuck him, to break down that last barrier between them. But they’re both tired, too strung tight after the emotional rollercoaster of the day and night that’s almost turned into morning.

Andre shuffles forwards a little, enough to be able to brace himself against the wall again, his mind spooling through the last hours in a flash of feelings and sensations, reaching back with one hand to rub over Helmut’s hips, then pushes between them, fingers grasping for his cock. “Do,” he says, his voice hoarse, swallowing and licking at his lips, “do what I did earlier,” he instructs, grasping Helmut’s cock more firmly to push it down beneath the curve of his arse, between his thighs, clamping down. Helmut lets out a startled huff against his neck, teeth digging in as his hands come to settle on Andre’s hips, tightening his grip as he pulls back a little experimentally. The water and the soap not washed off Andre yet make it an easy slide, not at all like their desperate struggle in the kitchen earlier.

“You feel so good,” Helmut whispers, barely audible over the sound of the shower and their heavy breathing.

It’s not like actual fucking; there isn’t the same intimacy for Andre as letting someone into his body, as surrendering as completely as he wants to, there won’t be the same lingering soreness the next day that he likes to feel. It’s the next best thing though when he feels Helmut bite down on his neck again, the heat of his chest pressing against his back, his cock pushing between his thighs, nudging at his balls. The sounds are almost the same too, the crude noise of wet skin slapping against skin as Helmut finds a rhythm that Andre pushes back to meet, their combined harsh breathing. The fingers of one of Helmut’s hands bruise his hip, he clutches at Andre so tightly, his other hand has slipped up over his stomach, his lower chest, before he reaches down, encircling Andre’s cock.

“I’m not scared to touch you,” Helmut says, his voice rough in between breaths he takes. His hand clenches around Andre’s dick, thumb rubbing over the tip on the next stroke. “Teach me what you like,” he prompts, and Andre groans, shifting his weight so that he only needs one hand to hold himself up against the wall, covering Helmut’s hand on his dick with the other.

There was never any chance either of them was going to last. Helmut shifts slightly to broaden his stance behind Andre, his attention split between keeping his balance in the slippery shower and jerking Andre’s cock in the way Andre shows him, mirroring the touches of Andre’s own hand over his. Andre takes his own hand away, needing both his hands to hold himself up again as he gives in, feeling his knees grow weak as a wave of release washes through him, tingling all the way from his fingers up his arms and his toes up his legs. Helmut jerks him through it, the hand holding his hip sliding up to hold him around his waist, not allowing him to slip away. Andre leans back, closing his eyes as he moves his face through the spray of the shower, feeling it hit his chest a moment later, the water flowing down his chest and stomach washing away the evidence of his orgasm. Helmut lets go of his cock to grasp his hip again, thrusting between his thighs a couple more times until he comes with a bitten off groan, holding himself tight against Andre’s back.

As soon as Andre feels like his legs will support him, he turns in Helmut’s embrace, clutching at his shoulders. The kiss he pulls Helmut into is still laced with the desperation he feels, only slowly gentling into something more tender, something more honest, less coloured by the maelstrom of self doubt that Andre so easily drowns in. They kiss for long minutes, lips and tongues sliding against each other, Andre’s body shielding them from most of the water.

It’s Helmut that brings the kiss to a close, leaning away to catch Andre’s eyes before he presses another short kiss against his lips, looking past his shoulder as he reaches for the bodywash behind Andre again. Andre hisses when he feels Helmut’s careful touch to his oversensitive dick as Helmut washes him, his hand dipping down between his thighs too.

“Still attracted to you,” Helmut says, a soft smile around his lips and Andre kisses him again, doesn’t want to stop.

His skin is pruned up and tender even after they’ve shut off the water and towelled themselves dry. He runs the towel through his hair, but doesn’t bother with the blow dryer, just picks up another fresh towel from the rack by the heater after he’s brushed his teeth, spreading it over the pillows. His body is crashing fast now, and he can see the same exhaustion around Helmut’s eyes as he watches him pick up his briefs to slip back into them.

They switch off the light and slip between the sheets in just their underwear. Helmut settles against the pillows before he draws Andre against himself. Andre doesn’t fight him, allowing Helmut to move him around until he’s satisfied with the way Andre is tugged against his side, head resting on Helmut’s shoulder, their bodies entwined. Behind the thin curtains he thinks he can already see the faintest light of dawn.

“I cancelled my flight,” Helmut says into the quiet darkness, prompting Andre to hum in confusion. “While you were outside, earlier. I wasn’t sure how the night would end, and I didn’t want to have to leave tomorrow.” He squeezes Andre’s shoulder, tilting his head to press a kiss to his temple.

Andre presses his face against Helmut’s neck. Everything smells like the bodywash and his sheets and _them_ , making him drowsy. He nods, glad they got a small extension of their time together, glad they won’t leave anything hanging between them this time.

Thank you, Andre wants to say. “I love you,” is what comes over his lips, almost lost against Helmut’s skin, only the way Helmut tightens his arms around him letting him know he’s been heard. If Helmut replies something, Andre doesn’t hear it before sleep claims him.

 

 

 

It’s late morning by the time Andre wakes. The sun is shining through the curtains as he blinks into the light, moving his head from where he’s still pressing his face into Helmut’s neck. During their sleep, Helmut has turned over, facing away from Andre, but his arms are still holding onto Andre’s. He dozes for a while, his thoughts still slowed by tiredness, enjoying the simple luxury of not having to get up, of not having to get the car to take Helmut to the airport. He turns his face, warmth spreading through him at the knowledge that tomorrow morning he will wake up like this again, that Helmut will still be here.

Only once his body can’t be ignored does he start extracting himself from the bed, careful not to wake Helmut, who makes a small noise and turns over into the warm spot on the mattress that Andre left behind. Andre sits on the edge of the mattress for a moment, looking at him. He reaches out and touches the side of his face, fingers barely touching as he strokes over the stubble on Helmut’s cheek, through the hair at his temple.

The heated concrete floor is pleasantly warm under his bare feet as he walks out of the bedroom, down the stairs. He uses the guest bathroom on the ground floor, scratching at his bare stomach as he walks into the kitchen. He can’t help the noise the coffee machine makes, only hopes that Helmut is still deeply enough asleep that it won’t wake him, then starts a second cup in case it did. The brew is still too hot to drink it as he waits for the second cup to run through the machine, cradling his coffee between his hands, inhaling the scent as he looks out onto the patio, on the rolling hills behind it.

It’s silence only broken by the steady breathing of Helmut still firmly in the clutches of sleep that greets him when he returns to the bedroom a couple minutes later. He sets the cups down on the bedside table, then goes to the large window facing the bed. The sun has moved far enough not to directly shine onto the top of the bed, not blinding them, so he plucks at the thin fabric, pushing it away from the glass panes, opening them to the breath-taking view he fell so in love with when he bought the house two years ago, still nothing more than a property in disrepair flirting with the possibilities of privacy and comfort it could offer. The windows are new, the hinges perfectly oiled and not creaking as he opens it, allowing the crisp January breeze inside to chase away the sleep-stale air. It makes him shiver, but the scent it brings along and the soft sounds of birds and fluttering leaves outside is too big a lure to shut it again.

Before the cold can properly latch onto his skin, he slips back into the bed, under the blanket and into the heat of Helmut’s body. He scoots to the middle of the bed, lying back and then gently manipulates Helmut into curling closer until he’s resting against Andre’s chest, the thick blanket drawn up over both to shield them from the chilly air. He twists around just far enough to fish his cup from the bedside table, the heat and bitterness of the brew on his tongue the perfect counterpoint. He sinks into the feeling, tangling his legs with Helmut’s when the other shifts against him. From this angle he can just so make out the mark he’s left on Helmut’s neck the night before, the skin bruised and reddened. He reaches down to the edge of the blanket, smoothing it down gently.

This is it, he thinks, this is what he bought the house for, this is why he came back from Japan. For a moment he can see it all stretching out before him: how it’ll be in a handful of years when he is retired, not such a strict schedule anymore, enough money to do what he wants, to travel where he wants to go and eat what he wants to eat; some place to come back to in between, somewhere to rest; indulging in the old cars he loves so much, maybe taking up classic car racing seriously for a while, maybe finding a local gallery to exhibit some of the pictures he took, only the ones he’s really proud of; maybe something else will catch his interest, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t quite feel grounded, not yet, probably won’t be for a while, but for the first time he feels the pull of a tether without the imminent urge to shred it.

The touch of Helmut’s palm sliding across his stomach, the scratch of his stubble against Andre’s shoulder draws him back to awareness. He looks down, his hand drifting up to cup the back of Helmut’s head, smiling at the sleep-drunk expression on his face. He wants to smirk, but knows the smile around his lips is entirely too soft as he leans down, pressing a tender kiss to the top of Helmut’s head. “I think I wore you out, old man.”

Helmut snorts, his breath a hot puff against Andre’s collar bone. He reaches up to tug the blanket tighter around himself. “Cold,” he says, his voice low as he curls closer. “Do I smell coffee?”

Andre makes a face. “I fear that might be cold too,” he says, twisting to reach for the second cup, not feeling any heat as he touches the china, decides it’s not worth to pick it up to offer it. Instead, he turns back and slides deeper under the blanket, curling into Helmut’s arms and catching his lips for a slow, lingering kiss, sharing the lingering taste of coffee from his mouth. It has to be enough until either of them gets restless enough to go downstairs.

“I heard what you said last night. This morning,” Helmut corrects himself. He pulls on the blanket until they’re almost completely enclosed by it, only dim light filtering in through the white fabric. “I know you do, you didn’t have to say it.”

Andre closes his eyes. They’re lying close, a small incline of his head is enough to make their foreheads touch. “It’s okay, you don’t have to say it back, I don’t expect you to.”

Helmut cups his cheeks, his lips brushing along his jaw. “But I want to,” he says, kissing him again, and his next words are barely more than a whisper, but still loud and clear to Andre.

It’s a stolen moment. Andre knows that as soon as they drag the blanket away and get out of back, let the reality of both their jobs and responsibilities catch up with them, there will only be a pale likeness of this closeness around them. Helmut will return to Seefeld at the end of the week, Andre will head to Paris and from there to Santiago, from there to Peru. It will be weeks before they see each other face to face again, possibly longer before they get a moment alone. There will be more misunderstandings, more fights in their future; the well-treaded spiral of self-doubt Andre falls back on so often seems just a few steps away, but that’s okay too.

They will work it out, somehow, like they did every time over the past two decades.


End file.
